


Take a Small Bite

by tahitianmangoes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Chaptered, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Sex, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahitianmangoes/pseuds/tahitianmangoes
Summary: Arthur knew exactly when it was that he fell in love with Charles Smith, it was when they were in Lemoyne after Charles had saved his life in a tobacco field, as cliche as that seemed.With unshakeable loyalty to Dutch and the events of Blackwater quickly spilling out before them,  Arthur knew that things would never be simple.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 37
Kudos: 160





	1. Just a Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Here's the latest fic I've been working on. I've really been into Charthur lately (lol) and had a couple of ideas in my head, one was this one, the other was a different au thing that I haven't worked out yet.. So I'm writing this one for now! I haven't forgotten about my other fic and updates will resume on that shortly, (if you were wondering!)
> 
> This fic takes place within the story of the game with different things here and there and a different ending.

_How did we end up here?_

Arthur knew exactly when it was that he fell in love with Charles Smith, it was when they were in Lemoyne. 

Arthur didn't much like Lemoyne. He hadn’t liked Colter either but Lemoyne was something else; it was too hot. Arthur had been forced to strip down, removing his coat and vest, rolling the sleeves of his sky blue shirt up to the elbow and loosening the buttons of the collar so that he revealed the tantalising swell of his sweat slicked chest.  
He fanned himself with his hat, wafting the tenacious flies away. At least at Colter, if he was cold, he could huddle by the fire but there was no way of cooling down in the horrid, sweltering heat of Clemens Point, their new camp.

The people of Lemoyne didn’t alleviate Arthur’s discomfort. The people were stuck in the past; stupid and prejudice, still fighting a war that had ended years ago.

But Dutch liked it there. He seemed pleased that the people of Lemoyne and Rhodes were so dense as it made it easier for him to do what he did best - charm people into getting what it was he wanted.  
It didn’t look to Arthur like they’d be moving any time soon. Sometimes, Arthur would slip away back towards the Heartlands, up into West Elizabeth where he could get lost in woodland or fields and let his thoughts settle. So much had happened since the mess they left behind in Blackwater and now in Valentine and at Horseshoe Overlook. 

They should have never robbed that train. 

The bonds were still too hot to shift so they hadn’t seen the fruits of their labour even weeks after the job had been done. It seemed like they were getting further and further away from the west, where they wanted to be. 

Arthur missed the west, missed the open spaces, where the horizon met the sky and you could ride for miles without seeing another soul. Society was changing. All the towns they visited now were so cramped and overcrowded and there were fewer and fewer people who looked like them anymore. Civilisation, huh?

He had fallen in love with Charles Smith in a tobacco field when Charles had saved his life, as cliche as that seemed. 

Out of all the many fights and scrapes that Arthur had gotten into over the years, this was the one that had felt most like he might not make it away from with his life.  
Arthur’d had guns pointed at him but he’d known that the people behind the trigger didn’t have the balls to pull it. He’d been thrown from moving horses, stagecoaches and trains, he’d been beaten black and blue but he knew all he needed was to walk it off.  
But this had been something else, somehow. Maybe it was because he had been caught by surprise. 

Arthur and Charles had been sent to retrieve Josiah Trelawny from a group of bounty hunters who had kidnapped him to gain information about the gang. The bounty hunters had taken the liberty of beating the poor feller half to death but Trelawny was made of harder stuff than he looked and hadn’t talked - spun them some yarn about being an intellectual looking for work at a university.

Arthur and Charles had chased the bounty hunters into the tobacco fields, only for Arthur to be lassoed around the neck by one of them and choked. He hadn’t expected that. A gun fight, yes. Maybe even a knife fight but Arthur was more than well equipped to handle both of those things. A sneak attack from behind like that was something else. 

Arthur gasped instinctively, like a fish out of water and his hands flew to his throat. He felt his face and neck reddening all too quickly. The bounty hunter dragged him by the lasso so that he fell back. Dust kicked up and he found himself coughing and gagging. 

“He’s mine!” The bounty hunter exclaimed as Charles rushed through the tobacco plants to investigate the noise. “Lemme take him - you get outta here.”

“You have my friend.” Charles said simply, raising his hands in calm surrender. Arthur looked pleadingly up at Charles standing before him as he scrambled on the ground, kicking up more dust with his feet, fingers trying but failing to free himself from the rope.

“He’s not your friend… I’ll give you money.” Came the bounty hunter’s reply.  
“Be quiet!” Charles snapped and threw his throwing knife swiftly at the bounty hunter’s neck. The bounty hunter crumpled to the ground behind Arthur and the rope went slack around his neck and he was able to free himself.

“You shoulda taken the money,” Arthur rasped, getting shakily to his feet.  
“I know,” Charles retorted, “I’m a fool.” A joke from Charles? A rarity. 

It was all over in moments but Arthur couldn’t shake that image of Charles in front of him, his cool facade only slipping when he told the bounty hunter to be quiet, a flash of anger in his deep eyes. Why did Arthur’s head keep showing him this?

Charles had been riding with them for around six months. Dutch had found him up in the Grizzlies, Dutch had seen something in Charles, just like he had with everyone else - that was a talent of his. Charles wasn’t your usual type of outlaw, he wasn’t an angry gunslinger with a chip on his shoulder or a common pickpocket and thief or a soul who had lost his way. 

Charles had been surviving on his own for the most part of his life by the sounds of things. He could track and hunt so food was never really an issue for him. He was a good shooter and even better with a bow and arrow making him the kind of feller you wanted on your side in a fight. He was present and loyal, only speaking when necessary.

Arthur sometimes wondered why Charles stayed with the gang, he seemed just fine on his own. But sometimes being alone so long could push someone to the brink of sanity. You crave to hear another person's voice, talking or humming, you crave touch… However slight. People aren't meant to live alone.

On the ride back to camp and all that night, Arthur’s mind kept wandering back to the tobacco field. Charles standing before him, his raven black hair falling about his face, framing his gentle features. Why had Arthur never looked at him like this before?

Later that night, Charles found Arthur sitting by the scout fire, staring into the flames, absentmindedly rubbing the mark on his neck left by the lasso.  
“Are you ok?” Charles asked him.  
Arthur started and felt a weird sensation in the tips of his fingers, like pins and needles when he realised that it was Charles standing beside him.  
“Yeah,” Arthur replied, “it’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse.”

“Hmm.” Charles’s dark eyes remained on Arthur’s neck as he took a seat right beside him. Arthur could feel the younger man’s warmth beside him and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Despite the heat, from Charles, from the fire, he shivered. 

“I didn’t thank you earlier,” Arthur realised, “I guess… I guess you saved my life.”  
Charles shrugged. “You would have done the same for me.”  
Arthur nodded.

His eyes met Charles’s, the flames from the campfire flickering in them. Arthur had always liked Charles, he was so different to everyone else in the gang - to anyone else Arthur had ever met. Arthur found him intriguing; he wasn’t like Sean who ran his mouth at every opportunity or Bill who would make it very plain if he was unhappy. Charles didn’t talk about his feelings or even his ideas. He was quiet and mysterious.  
Charles would sometimes disappear from the camp for a couple of days at a time and return with deer or rabbits for Pearson. Sometimes he’d return empty handed. He would never tell anyone about where he had been or what he had done unless it was completely necessary. 

When Charles did speak, it was never in riddles, always direct and clear. Maybe it was the years away from other people that had made him that way.

A strange feeling in Arthur’s stomach arose, reaching up inside of him and before he could make sense of it, he had leaned over and pressed his lips to a surprised Charles’s in a kiss. It lasted merely moments before Arthur pulled away, horrified.

“I-I’m sorry.” He stammered. “Was… Was that wrong?”  
Charles’s kind eyes met Arthur’s. “No Arthur,” he said gently, “it wasn’t wrong.” 

It didn’t feel wrong but it hadn’t felt right, either.Arthur felt a surge of panic course through him - what if someone had seen them?

“I-I should go to bed.. I…” Arthur stood up hurriedly and stumbled back to his tent. He lay awake all night, plagued by the thought of how soft Charles’s lips were and how he wished he’d had the guts to kiss him longer.


	2. Ravenous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur had never let Dutch down, never gone against him, not once in the twenty years since they had been together.  
> Sure, he’d gotten into trouble, put Dutch in some tight spots back when he was younger but never had he defied Dutch. It wasn’t that he feared the repercussions, quite the opposite. It wasn’t fear at all. Arthur loved Dutch deeply, perhaps too deeply...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! I've been working hard on his so I hope it's turned out, ok!

Arthur had avoided Charles as best he could after the encounter at the campfire. He was conflicted; he wished the kiss had lasted longer; sometimes when he closed his eyes, Charles had kissed back, pushed his warm tongue into Arthur’s mouth, wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulled him closer, kissed him deeper.  
He wanted Charles to run his hands through his hair, trail burning kisses down his neck and throat, down, down, down…  
Sometimes, even living with others you can become lonely and crave another’s touch.

But had little time to dwell on the kiss or what it meant or why he’d done it. 

The gang had become entangled in some ridiculous feud between the two large families who lived in Rhodes, the Grays and the Braithwaites. Hosea and Dutch both seemed convinced that there’d be something in it for them - gold or jewels or something. At this point, Arthur would have taken a bill fold if it meant they could get out of there.

Arthur doubted there was anything worth having but didn’t tell anyone, Dutch’s moods swung back and forth so quickly now, quicker than they had ever done before and Arthur didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of them.

Arthur could see Hosea growing more and more weary of Dutch, telling John that he should make a break for it while he could, to give Jack a chance but it seemed to fall on deaf and dumb ears. Hosea didn’t give Arthur the same lecture, probably because he knew that Arthur was too far gone. He would follow Dutch unquestioningly to the ends of the Earth and back and Hosea knew that.

It was that unshakable faith that had led Arthur to setting the Gray’s tobacco fields alight with young Sean. Dutch had asked them to do so, so they had. Hosea had been told by Mrs Braithwaite that there was money in it for them. Arthur doubted this.

The whole business was insane, one of the more insane things they had done and Arthur just couldn't see the point. He preferred straight up robbing to this, even another goddamn train at this point would be better than getting involved in a hundred years of quarreling over moonshine in some redneck, hick town.

Sean had enjoyed it however, he’d laughed as they rode away hard from the burning fields, the fire catching in his red hair making him glow as they rode off into the night. 

Arthur saw himself in Sean. He remembered being young and loving the action, the thrill.  
He remembered his first bank job with Hosea and Dutch, it had given him such a high. He’d wanted to move onto the next job straight away, Dutch had chuckled, “easy big boy,” he’d told him, “all in good time.”

Sean was still young, he hadn’t seen half as much action as Arthur had. This was an adventure to him. To Arthur, it felt like trouble and they didn’t need any more of that. 

“You comin’ back to camp with me, big feller?” Sean asked Arthur when they were clear of Caliga Hall.  
“I… I don’t think so. I got some other stuff I gotta do first. You let Hosea know how we got on.” Arthur told him.  
The red head shrugged, “suit yourself.” Sean urged his horse on and disappeared into the night.

Arthur didn’t really have much else to attend to but recently he found himself not wanting to return to camp. Molly and Dutch rowed all the time, she was love sick. Dutch was getting bored of her, as usual. 

Arthur found himself wandering around through the night, back up towards the county border and he set up camp by Flat Iron Lake. He stared into his campfire until his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore then lay back on his bedroll before being enveloped by dreams of burning tobacco fields and Charles Smith kissing him. 

****

_How did we end up here?_

It was cold. So cold. Colder than the snow storm up in Colter but there was no snow in the air and no wind to carry it. Arthur had no energy to even tremble. His whole body cried out but he couldn’t think. He didn’t know if he was awake or dreaming. If it were a dream he wished so much that he would awake. He willed his eyes to open, for him to sit up and move but he couldn’t.

“Arthur!” Someone calling his name but they sounded so far away.

He wanted to call out back to them _“help!”_ But he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember how he had ended up like this. Where had he been before it all went dark? 

Dutch… 

He remembered Dutch. His dark eyes had seemed different. They didn’t burn with passion like they would usually as they had held Arthur’s gaze. He looked pained. Why? Arthur couldn’t remember.  
He could see Dutch’s face. His lips moved but he couldn’t hear the words. Then as suddenly as Arthur could see him, he was gone and it was black.

“Arthur!” Someone called him again.  
“Dutch!” He tried to reply but he wasn’t sure if he had. His lips were dry, his throat and chest burned yet he shivered still.

“Arthur!” It was getting closer and closer yet Arthur felt like he was getting further and further away. 

The blackness overwhelmed him, washing over his body until he couldn’t fight it anymore…

****

“Arthur,” Dutch called late one morning as Arthur stirred on his cot. The heat made him lethargic and cranky. He sat up, blond hair messy and dishevelled. 

Dutch was standing at the mouth of his tent. The older man too had removed some of his clothing to suit the Lemoyne heat; his black velour jacket was gone, now he wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled accompanied by his infamous black waistcoat with golden buttons and chains, red satin at the back. It followed the contours of his torso delightfully, cinching in at the waist and hugging the muscles of his shoulder and back.

He’d removed his hat, his own hair sticking to his forehead with light sweat, dark tresses falling over his even darker eyes.

“What is it, Dutch?” Arthur asked, stretching as he stood up. He was naked from the waist up, too hot for union suits. It didn’t seem to bother Dutch who had seen Arthur in varying states of undress over the years.

“I want you to go and get Micah.”  
No sooner had the name left Dutch’s lips had Arthur rolled his eyes almost theatrically.  
“Now, I know you ain’t too fond of him, son-” Dutch started and Arthur laughed.  
“That’s puttin’ it politely, Dutch,” he said. “Ain’t that son o’ bitch caused enough trouble? I already busted him from the Strawberry jail and he made me kill near enough the whole goddamn town jus’ so he could get his guns!”  
“I will admit that he can be a little… Unorthodox.”  
“I was thinkin’ more like a pain in the ass.” Arthur retorted, sitting back down on his cot as he buttoned his light blue shirt up then lit a cigarette by striking the match on the sole of his boot.

“Arthur, I am asking you. Please..” Dutch said, something in his voice told Arthur that Dutch definitely was not asking him at all and that he had better do it.  
“Can’t you send someone else?” Arthur asked as he exhaled, smoke tumbling from his lips as he spoke, “how ‘bout John or Javier?”  
“Arthur, won’t you do this for me, son?”

Something about Dutch’s tone of voice made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up on end and sent a jolt of electricity through his entire body. Dutch had that ability; _his silver tongue_ Arthur had heard people call it. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was quite that… But whatever it was certainly had a hold over Arthur.

“Fine.” Arthur replied.  
Dutch smiled looking satisfied. “Good boy.” He said to Arthur before returning to his own tent. 

Arthur went to his horse, a silver mustang named Sapphire. He tended to her before he left but his mind was elsewhere. 

Arthur had never let Dutch down, never gone against him, not once in the twenty years since they had been together.  
Sure, he’d gotten into trouble, put Dutch in some tight spots back when he was younger but never had he defied Dutch. It wasn’t that he feared the repercussions, quite the opposite. It wasn’t fear at all. Arthur loved Dutch deeply, perhaps too deeply...

Dutch had said it himself many times before, “you’re like a son to me, Arthur.”  
But it was more than that, Arthur could feel it.

Arthur wore Dutch’s words of praise like a badge of honour, doing his bidding, settling his whims and needs. He got a rush out of it, the look in Dutch’s eyes when he returned after doing what he was told to do and Dutch touching the small of his back saying _“you’re such a good boy, Arthur. You always do so good for me…”_ It made him shiver. Made his insides tighten. 

He thought about it sometimes, when he was alone at night. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dutch’s amber eyes looking back at him.

_“You’ve always been so special to me, son. Always.”_

Arthur remembered every small yet intoxicating touch from Dutrch’s large hands; on his arm, his shoulder or chest, sometimes on his face. He savoured them, locked them away in his memory for only him to see during his most intimate moments.  
He remembered every time Dutch’s eyes had lingered on his own, just a second too long… A second long enough for him to feel that knot in his stomach and to give him hope that maybe Dutch felt it, too. 

_“You always do right by me, Arthur. You’re so good to me.”_

He remembered every time Dutch had praised him, every time Dutch had shown him affection… All the times they had been alone together and all the times Arthur wished something more had happened even though he would never say it.

He revisited those times as he lay on his cot, eyes closed, lips parted slightly, replaying them in his head like movie reels. 

He imagined all the times they’d been alone, imagined all the things he dared not think about; Dutch would hold his gaze, his eyes burning a thousand colours and each of them were just as hungry for Arthur as Arthur was for Dutch.  
Before Arthur would have known it, Dutch would close the gap between him, kissing Arthur hard: ravenous. It was sloppy, he could taste Dutch’s tongue - whiskey and cigars, feel Dutch’s hands grabbing at him, tearing at his clothes, Arthur wanted to drown in Dutch.

The knot he felt inside would tighten like a coil,he would bite down on his lip to stifle his moans as he took himself in his hand and stroked feverishly, imagining what Dutch could do to him and how he wanted it so.

He wanted Dutch to fill him up, fuck him raw, take him with no mercy and make him writhe and drool and moan beneath him.  
Arthur would imagine it, Dutch slamming him against a wall, face first, using his body to relieve all his stress and tension. Other times he’d imagine Dutch pinning him down to a bed, forcing him open and filling him to the hilt

Dutch could be rough, Arthur had heard it alright when he was will Molly or whoever it was this time. Dutch didn’t care who heard in the camp. Arthur had grown immensely jealous over the years, wishing it was him that Dutch would fuck so loud for everyone to hear.

He imagined how Dutch would force him to his knees when he was ready to release, stuffing his cock in Arthur’s mouth and Arthur would willingly oblige, sucking as if it were his true purpose in life. Dutch would moan, cuss and whisper praises to Arthur, _“you’re such a good boy for your daddy, Arthur”._  
He’d fuck his face until tears streamed from Arthur’s eyes and he gagged but Dutch would persist, just how Arthur would want him to - at his most primal. He’d release on Arthur’s face and Arthur would greedily lick the hot mess on his lips.

Arthur would spill himself at the thought, opening his eyes as he panted alone in his cot. Then he’d sleep, imagining Dutch beside him.

“Do you want some company?” It was Charles. He had startled Arthur who whirled around to face him, hand instinctively reaching down to his gun belt. He’d forgotten where he was, still standing by his horse, staring off into the distance thinking of Dutch holding him afterwards and caressing his hair gently. _”My special boy…”_

“N-No.. No thanks.” Arthur replied gruffly.  
Arthur had noticed Charles watching him from time to time since the kiss. Arthur had done his best to ignore the younger man, not even looking at him if he could help it. He still didn’t quite understand why he had done it. He’d dreamed of Dutch for years but that made sense. Charles however, he had only known for six months. Maybe it was the mystery and intrigue of the younger man… But there was a part of Arthur that felt like he was betraying Dutch in some way.

****

Micah was held up outside Strawberry, still too scared to come back to camp because he knew that Dutch wasn’t best pleased at his jail break. Arthur of course, had told him how Micah had lost his head and half the town had been killed as a result. 

“Arthur, good to see you,” Micah said as Arthur turned up.  
“Why? You want rescuin’ again?” Arthur asked as he slid off his mount and looked around. Micah was using a ledge as a sheltered camp for himself with just a small tent and campfire. It didn’t look too comfortable but it was secluded enough.

Micah smirked, “no, I got a plan to make it up to you.”  
“A plan like the Blackwater ferry job? Or like you goin’ off scoutin’ and endin’ up in jail?” Arthur asked sarcastically, sitting down heavily by the fire.

“Dutch said you was a big shadow cast by a tiny tree,” Micah said.  
The mention of Dutch’s name made Arthur’s heart jolt but he didn’t show it. He merely shrugged, “I don’t even know what that means.”  
“I thought you was a tough boy, Morgan,” Micah said, boxing an imaginary foe in the air in front of him, “not one of those gentlemen, tryin’ to protect his riding clothes.”  
“I just know that whenever something gets real, you turn yellow.”  
“Yellow.” Micah repeated. He looked annoyed. “Well, I guess you won’t be coming to rob the banking coach that comes about this time into Strawberry? I heard one of them O’Driscoll boys yappin’ about it while I was inside.”

He walked away from Arthur, facing out from the camp with his arms folded, awaiting Arthur’s response. Arthur studied Micah’s back for a few moments. He hated Micah maybe more than anyone else he had ever met. No one else in the camp seemed to like him much either but Dutch did.  
It seemed strong but he repulsed Arthur, not only in looks with his greasy blond hair, beer belly and stench of cigarettes and sweat but in personality, too. He was awful to everyone at camp, including the women and even the dog that little Jack had found. He was a repulsive and vile man, not the sort Arthur ever would have imagined Dutch becoming associated with, at least not the Dutch he thought he knew. 

“You and me, do a robbery?” Arthur asked, getting up as he spoke.  
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Micah replied.  
“After you, then.” 

Arthur saddled up and followed Micah to a spot up the hill where they could get a good view of the trail. 

“What are you doin’ campin’ out here like come crazy hermit?”  
“Can’t exactly stay in town, can I? And I wanna take a peace offerin’ back to Dutch.”  
Again, Arthur’s heart skipped a beat upon hearing his name. A peace offering? Arthur felt like it was unnecessary, to Dutch, it seemed like Micah could do no wrong. He supposed he was jealous, although he hated to admit it. 

Arthur didn’t feel like talking. They waited on the ridge for the coach to come through.  
“Just don’t lose your head,” Arthur warned.  
“Of course, tough guy.” Came Micah’s reply.

The coach came through like Micah said it would, drawn by four horses and flanked by four more armed riders. Arthur brought his bandana up and covered his face. With that, Micah and him urged their horses down the trail, towards the coach before it could reach Strawberry. 

“This is a robbery!” Micah cried as they got closer “stop that coach right now!”  
Before the words had even finished leaving Micah’s mouth, the four riders had drawn their guns on the pair of them and began firing. Arthur reached for his rifle and picked off one of the guards, he aimed for the head, a cleaner, kinder kill. He did the same with the other three, blood splattering everywhere, on the ground, on his coat.

Arthur felt bullets grazing past him. Horses neighed and reared up as their riders fell.  
Micah was shooting with wild abandon, trying to take out the driver but failing, not that he seemed concerned. Arthur felt like Micah was having too much fun with this.  
Arthur rode alongside the coach and shot the driver, again, another clean shot through the temple. He crumpled and fell forwards off of the coach and was trampled underfoot by the horses pulling the it. 

“Come on,” Micah instructed, “let’s get this coach out of here.”  
Arthur dismounted his horse and climbed up onto the coach alongside Micah.  
“No need to keep your face covered now, it’s just you and me, sweetheart.” Micah said as he pulled his bandana down. 

Arthur bristled but didn’t say anything. He took the reins and drove the coach away from the scene as fast as he could. Micah picked up a rifle that must have been dropped by the driver. Micah handed it to Arthur.  
“From me to you,” he said, “it’s more your style than mine.” Arthur took it without a word, glancing at it, Micah was right, it was more his style and looked brand new.

“What did I tell ya - like licking butter off a knife.” Micah was saying just as they turned to cross the river and a tree fell into their path.  
“Shit!” Arthur exclaimed.  
“Get across the river!” Micah cried. Arthur could see men coming out of the trees. The horses had become spooked and weren’t responding. There was suddenly a deafening explosion that lifted him from where he sat, throwing him into the river. 

Arthur’s face was under the water. He was winded and confused.The horses bolted and Arthur could hear gunfire.  
He felt someone grab him under the armpit and wrench him up. “Come on, Arthur, get out of there.” Micah had hauled him up with one arm and was shooting recklessly with the revolver in his other hand. 

Micah pulled him behind the overturned stagecoach. Arthur caught his breath while Micah peered over the top and shot at the men. “Damn O’Driscolls!” Micah spat. He crouched down beside Arthur as he reloaded, “you ok?” He asked him, light eyes watching him with concern. 

Arthur nodded, “I-I think so,” Arthur replied, “just keep your head down - let’s finish ‘em!”  
Arthur drew his rifle and joined in with Micah, shooting at the O’Driscolls. 

The gunfight that ensued was very much one way. Despite the O’Driscolls outnumbering them, Arthur and Micah were much better marksmen than any of them would ever be.  
When it looked like there were no more O’Driscoll’s coming, Arthur stood up and glared at Micah. 

“Why is it every time I do a job with you, it ends in a pile with dead bodies?” He asked angrily.  
“Since when did you have a problem killin’ O’Driscolls?” Micah retorted.  
Arthur had to chuckle, “you got a point there.”

Micah shot the lock off of the stagecoach and ransacked the lockbox. It was a decent take. Arthur gave Micah his share and kept the rest for himself and the camp’s share.

They rode back separately to ensure they weren’t followed. Arthur made a detour to a saloon where he drank until it was light outside and he couldn’t think anymore. He didn’t want to go back to camp. He wanted to ride west and never look back. But the thought of Dutch always pulled him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Comments, kudos and feedback always welcome!


	3. Starving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Charles did sleep, he dreamed of fire. He dreamed of the fire ripping through the reservation where his tribe were, he dreamed of him being pulled away from his mother and heard her screaming his name as she was dragged away. Sometimes Charles saw the faces of people he’d hurt or killed along the way. It wasn’t the life he had chosen but it was the life that had been thrust upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This took slightly longer than expected because I got busy with work, as usual and it also didn't turn out like I had planned... But I hope if you read it, you enjoy it! I'm going to try to get the next part out a little fast with perhaps a bit more action in it!

They were no closer to finding the elusive Braithwaite or Gray fortunes. Arthur was sick of it all. He hated the dusty town of Rhodes, hated encountering Lemoyne Raiders at every turn and he hated the heat. His shirts stuck to his back and sweat rolled down his forehead from his hairline. He hated the thick fog that descended at the drop of a hat, hated the humidity and how it made Hosea cough worse than before. 

Pearson and Mrs Adler argued, as did Dutch and Molly.  
Arthur often felt sorry for her - Molly. Under normal circumstances, maybe her and Dutch would have worked well together, had he not been an outlaw with a price on his head. Her aristocracy seemed to suit him well, Arthur could imagine him having fancy dinners with her parents in their large country house in Dublin. But she was on Dutch’s home soil meaning she had to make do with camping out in the middle of nowhere, being eaten alive by mosquitoes, not being able to have many fine clothes to wear or places to wear them to for that matter. It wasn’t exactly like she could step into town on Dutch’s arm. 

There had been a bounty on Dutch’s head for thirteen years and that didn’t look like it was about to change, not from the sounds of Trewlany who had said something about super agents on the hunt for him but Trelawny always did have a penchant for theatrics... Either way, Arthur was almost amazed that they had lasted this long without bullets in their heads.

“Mr Morgan!” It was Susan Grimshaw. Susan was the matriarch of the camp, making sure everyone did their bit and making sure that the camp didn’t plunge into disrepair and squalor - even Dutch was afraid of her. “Mr Morgan, what is wrong with you?”  
Arthur was dozing under a tree to the far west of the camp where it was slightly quieter and he couldn’t quite hear the threats Mrs Adler was making to Mr Pearson.  
He’s hoped Susan wouldn’t notice him. His hat covered his eyes and he lifted it a little to look up at her standing menacingly over him. “Miss Grimshaw?”  
She was about the same age as Dutch yet Arthur couldn’t ever remember her being young, not like he remembered Dutch. Dutch was just as handsome now as he was then, maybe more so.

“You used to be a man of action!” She exclaimed, “and now you’re stuck in camp all day! Get out there and do whatever it is you do!”  
“You sure have a fine way with words,” Arthur muttered.  
“What was that, Mr Morgan?” She asked thought Arthur knew full well that she had heard him. Arthur sighed. “Fine. Whatever you say.”  
He hauled himself up and began to prepare to leave the camp.

****

Charles had been observing the camp that morning. He often did so, it was what he was good at - quietly observing from a distance.

He noticed the small things: the way Kieran followed Mary-Beth around the camp like a lost puppy, the way Dutch’s watchful eyes also followed Mary-Beth around the camp... The way Molly would try futility to get Dutch’s attention back to her and how she’d disappear by the lake and cry to herself when he shook her off like a bad smell. 

Charles watched Lenny and Hosea talking animatedly while Sean hovered nearby. He watched how Javier pretended that it was just a coincidence that he was everywhere Tilly was at the same time as her.  
He saw how Bill would somehow get flustered around Kieran, how Pearson would stare off into the distance sadly as if he weren’t there at all. Grimshaw too would stand by the water’s edge, smoking and staring at nothing at all. 

Charles thought that they looked so lonely, despite being surrounded by people.

Maybe that’s how they all felt; Molly as she looked forlorn that Dutch brushed her off again, Kieran as Mary-Beth turned another page in her book, not noticing he was there, Susan watching on as the girls flirted with Javier or Sean and giggled while she sat alone.

We’re all just lonely souls, Charles thought, hungering for the touch of another.

Charles had noticed that Micah watched, too. He watched Dutch mostly whilst pretending he wasn’t. Other times, Charles saw him watching Arthur if Arthur was in the camp which, more recently, he hadn’t been. 

When Arthur was there, Charles found himself watching him out of everyone. He’d been watching him for a long time, long before they shared a kiss. He couldn’t deny that he was somehow, for some reason, captivated by the gruff outlaw. He had been since the day they met.

Charles noticed that Arthur would often sit away from the others and write in a journal. Sometimes he’d sit around the campfire and drink silently while others talked, told stories, jokes or sang.  
Arthur didn’t speak very often, not about his thoughts or feelings but he wore them; Charles could see when Arthur was upset or angry. It was in the tightness of his lips or his furrowed brow. He jiggled his leg impatiently as he sat sometimes when he was restless. He chewed his bottom lip absentmindedly if he was thinking. If he was nervous, his hand would subconsciously rest on his gun belt.  
Charles loved it when Arthur was happy. When Arthur was happy, he smiled. It was a great, beautiful smile bursting with light, breathing life into his cold eyes and changing his entire face from surly and aggressive to soft and warm. Arthur was seldom happy and it was a fleeting sight.

Charles felt foolish for noticing and for watching and wanting to be around Arthur all the time and for feeling a pang of disappointment when he realised that Arthur wasn’t at the camp, and that he’d ridden out early morning before anyone would notice. That’s why Charles would often take the early guard duty, at least then, he would see Arthur leave. 

Arthur had been more and more withdrawn lately. Charles wondered if it was his fault; that kiss…

Today, Charles watched Arthur from the scout campfire as Miss Grimshaw had nagged him. Reluctantly, Arthur got up from where he sat, beneath a tree with his hat pulled down over his face away from everyone else. Arthur grabbed his coat and began to saddle up.

Charles didn’t know if Arthur saw him or not. Arthur had been ignoring him ever since the kiss. It didn’t hurt Charles, that was the way that Arthur dealt with things. He didn’t argue or talk things over to understand them, he internalised them and let them make him colder and more cruel. 

Charles too didn’t really understand what he felt. He knew he had liked the kiss. More than liked it. He thought about it all the time. Arthur’s lips were chapped, he tasted like cigarettes and coffee. Charles wanted to taste him again.

He couldn't remember the last time he had kissed anyone. Long before he had joined the Van der Linde gang. Kissing out of need, not because he cared or felt anything. A quiet desperation. 

Charles wouldn’t deny to himself that he was attracted to Arthur. He’d been attracted to men before. And women. He hadn’t discriminated when someone had given him affection.  
Out on the road, it was usually more men than women, unless he paid, of course. Some men intentionally sought other men. Charles hadn’t become one of them but he could tell the type and wouldn’t deny their advances.  
There were never any names. No emotions. No ties or commitments. For the most part, they were just a couple of lonely men, no place to call home and no one to share anything with. A lot of the time, either they or Charles would leave before first light and would never see each other again. No feelings. It was easier that way.

Charles wasn’t sure if he believed in love anymore. People came and went and somehow Charles stayed the same. Hollow. A shell of a person. He’d been alone for fifteen years, it didn’t even hurt anymore. 

Arthur had been drinking more lately. He became mean when he was drunk; he called John stupid and Hosea sour faced. He called Lenny stuck up and teased Pearson for his weight. He’d even provoke Dutch, mocking his plan or complaining about how far south they were. Dutch would shove him away, “you goddamn child!” He’d snap.  
Charles hated this side of Arthur. When he had first met Arthur, Arthur had been kind and gentle, even if Arthur didn’t think so. Charles missed that about him. 

Charles had only been with the gang for around six months but Arthur was the only member of the gang he fully trusted.  
When Arthur wasn’t drunk, he was kind and earnest, he was modest and funny. He made Charles feel alive again whenever he was around. Charles had never really known romance, never been in a relationship because he never stayed anywhere long enough or took the time to get to know anyone. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to, for the longest time, he’d been so lonely… But he couldn’t bare the thought of becoming close to someone only for them to leave him… Or be taken from him. He felt a spark when he was with Arthur, an electricity.

Charles had spent the majority of his life going out of his way to not make connections with people. Uncle had said that he had more fun watching the grass grow than talking to Charles. Charles wasn’t hurt, it took a lot to hurt him but he was disappointed with himself for being unable to let anyone close to him.

When Dutch came across Charles, it was up in the Grizzlies. Charles had spent all day hunting deer unsuccessfully and was starving. Quite literally. He hadn’t eaten in days, maybe even a week. He felt himself shaking, he couldn’t focus when he tried to aim his bow, his eyes were blurry and heavy. Snow was beginning to set in. He’d been foolish to stay up there for so long but he preferred the peace of the mountains to the noise of the towns. 

He mounted up and left the cabin that he had been staying in. It took him all day to reach the closest town. The general store was already closed so he entered the saloon to sea of eyes, something he’d become accustomed to and although he never grew oblivious to it, he had become apathetic. Not white, but also not black enough and not native enough to fit in anywhere. He stood out for all the wrong reasons. 

“I want to order some food,” Charles said to the bartender.  
The bartender looked Charles up and down before replying, “we don’t serve fellers like you here.”  
Charles was usually calm, used to this prejudice and stupidity but he felt himself trembling with hunger, he was weak, weaker than he’d been in a long time. If he returned to the mountain without food, he’d most likely die. 

“My money is just as good as anyone else’s here.” Charles replied hotly, a flare of anger in his tone.  
“Sorry friend.”  
“You heard him, _redskin_ , now get outta here.” Said the man who stood beside him at the bar.  
“What did you call me?” Charles hissed.  
“I said: get outta here, redskin.” The man repeated, unable to conceal him mirth.

Charles didn’t often lose his temper, he often found that solving issues with his fists or with guns rarely made the situation better but he hated the intolerance, it was an intolerance he had only seen grow and grow. It was an intolerance that had destroyed his tribe, taken his mother from him and made his father turn to drink. 

“Now, now, gentlemen.” Came a voice from the other side of the saloon, smooth as velvet but commanding, “this is America, the land of the free. If this feller here said he wants to eat, then you should let him eat.”

Charles turned around to see a man standing behind him. He was taller than Charles but not imposingly so, with dark, wavy hair and even darker eyes. He wore almost all black, save for the gold chains attached to his waistcoat, the red handkerchief in his breast pocket and the red accent of his hat. 

“Stay outta this, mister,” the man who called Charles a redskin said to the man in black, “ain’t got nothin’ t’ do with you.”  
“Oh, but it has.” The man in black replied, a hint of a smirk on his face and in his voice as he spoke. The flames from the fire in the saloon danced in the man in black’s eyes and Charles could see them gleam almost.  
“Why?” The racist man asked, “what chu gon do ‘bout it?”  
“Oh, I won’t do anything.” The man in black replied, his voice like honey, oozing hypnotically over each word he spoke, he leisurely lit up a cigar and took a long drag before he continued, “but he will.”

He gestured behind him and Charles saw another man that he hadn’t noticed before. This man was bigger, broader and more muscular. His hair was blond and eyes a light cerulean that seemed to shimmer as they met Charles’s.  
He had a more threatening presence than the man in black, without even having to say a word to him, the racist man at the bar seemed to recoil into himself slightly. Despite himself, he continued talking to the man in black.

“And what’s he gon do?”  
The man in black laughed. It was almost melodic. “Do you really wanna find out, partner?” He asked.  
The racist man didn’t reply. He simply turned around to face the bar, his back to the man in black and his muscular companion.

The dark eyes of the man in black met Charles’s now. He was smiling.  
“What are you eating?” He asked Charles, “it’s on me.”  
“I…” Charles started, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He felt his cheeks turn hot and he couldn’t maintain eye contact for some reason, finding himself looking away.  
“Don’t try to argue, son,” the man in black continued, “I insist.” 

Charles found himself being guided to a table in the corner of the saloon by the man in black and was promptly seated beside the blond haired man. The blond haired man didn’t speak. The man in black ordered at the bar and soon they all ate lamb stew.  
Charles couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten hot food like this, back in his cabin he’d finished off the last cold tinned sweetcorn days ago. He hated himself for letting himself get into this situation. 

He knew the other two were watching him but in that moment he had no pride, he ate quickly, the warm stew filling him, stopping him from shaking. He could feel his strength returning almost instantly.

“You look like you needed that, son.” The man in black said to him once he was finished.  
Charles nodded in response.  
“How rude of me,” the man in black said with a smile, “I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Dutch Van der Linde and this is Arthur Morgan,” he said gesturing to the blond man.  
Charles nodded again. “Charles Smith.”  
He’d heard of Dutch, his face was on wanted posters from Tumblweed to Annesburg. Wanted: dead or alive. 

“Well Mr Smith, where is it you’re from?” Dutch Van der Linde asked him.  
Charles shrugged. He didn’t talk much, even to people he knew well, not that there were many of them left. Charles often found that the closer people got to him, the crueler the world seemed to be.  
“Around.” He replied. His shortness didn’t seem to put Dutch off, his smile remained unfaltering.  
“What brings you here, to this hellhole?”  
“I ran out of food.” Charles replied simply. “Thank you for your help. People don’t always respond well to someone like me. Especially in places like this…”  
Dutch shook his head, “don’t mention it, son. We’re all God’s citizens and no redneck, dixie whistling, hillbilly has the right to tell you what to do.”

A small smile graced Charles’s lips momentarily.

“You stayin’ here, Mr Smith?” Dutch asked him, gesturing towards the staircase on the other side of the room that led to the rooms upstairs.  
Charles shook his head, “I have a cabin, I’ll go back there.”

Arthur Morgan made a soft noise for the first time. His bright blue-green eyes looked up at Charles from beneath the brim of his hat. “You must be crazy if you think you can go back up to the mountains in this weather.”  
Arthur was right, the snow was coming down thick and fast now. Charles wouldn’t be able to make it even half way. 

“He’s right.” Dutch said, “why don’t you stay with us, son?” He suggested.  
“I think you’ve been generous enough with your hospitality, Mr Van der Linde,” Charles started.  
“Nonsense. Sendin’ you out there would be a death sentence. Stay with us til you’re on your feet again, you look like ya need feeding up and some decent rest.”

Charles soon found that there was little arguing with Dutch once he had made his mind up. He went up to the room he would be staying in. Another man by the name of Lenny was already there. He’d been reading and missed the whole ordeal. Dutch filled him in and Lenny introduced himself.

“So you’ll be comin’ with us when we move on?” Lenny asked.  
Charles shrugged, “I don’t know… I’m not really the best company…”  
Lenny smiled, it was like a beacon of light that lit up the room. Charles instantly felt at ease. Lenny wasn’t as imposing as Dutch or Arthur, just a kid at only nineteen.  
“Dutch must like you and when he makes his mind up, it’s kinda hard to get out of it.”  
“I’m beginning to see that…” Charles muttered and Lenny laughed.  
“We ain’t saints Mr Smith but everyone at camp is a good person in their own way. More or less.”  
“More or less?”  
“Well there’s Micah but… He ain’t been with us long so I don’t really wanna be makin’ any assumptions.”

Charles didn’t question any further about Micah. It was getting late and he was exhausted from coming down the mountain. He was glad to be warm and dry.  
He lay down on a bedroll on the floor as there was only one bed in the room which Lenny was already lying on and drifted into an uneasy sleep. 

Most days, Charles wouldn’t sleep until the early hours of the morning, spending that time crafting weapons or ammo.  
When he did sleep, he dreamed of fire. He dreamed of the fire ripping through the reservation where his tribe were, he dreamed of him being pulled away from his mother and heard her screaming his name as she was dragged away. Sometimes Charles saw the faces of people he’d hurt or killed along the way. It wasn’t the life he had chosen but it was the life that had been thrust upon him. 

_How did we end up here?_

Arthur went away for a few days because Susan seemed to think he should. He didn’t really have any leads and he felt too frustrated to think straight anyway.

He didn’t know why he was so angry. It didn’t take much to rile him anymore, he was like a loaded gun. He found himself getting into fights more easily, not letting things lie if someone said something that he didn’t like the sound of. He was brawling again, still not welcome in the saloon in Rhodes, which Dutch was not best pleased with, because he broke a whiskey bottle over some feller’s head who had called him _a yankee piece of shit._  
Arthur had beaten the ever-loving shit out of the man until he was wrenched off of him by the bartender and turfed out.

There was rage inside of Arthur, an undercurrent that buzzed and meant that he couldn’t think coherently anymore; clouding his thoughts and judgement. He hated everything, this mess that they were leaving behind them everywhere they went, the fact that Dutch was changing and becoming less and less like the man he had known for the past twenty years and it was all Micah’s fault…  
Neither Arthur nor Hosea could seem to get through to Dutch. Arthur could see that Hosea was becoming disillusioned with Dutch and as much as Arthur loved him, he could understand why. 

The old Dutch would never have had them this far south, this close to civilisation or this close to danger. 

Arthur found himself wandering again, trying to make sense of his thoughts. He stopped when he reached Van Horn. It was very different to Rhodes, Van Horn always seemed to be raining, grey and depressing. Arthur headed to the saloon.

He drank alone, shooing away a couple of whores who pestered him, _“ain’t you a handsome, tough man? How about you show me what those big hands can do.”_

Arthur drank until the buzzing stopped.

“Arthur?”  
Arthur turned around to be met with the sight of a well dressed man, wearing a red frock coat and light blue waistcoat with smart, grey pinstripe trousers and two tone shoes. He peered at Arthur with bright green eyes.  
“Trelawny, what you doin’ here?” Arthur asked him, slurring his words slightly.  
“I could ask you the same thing, dear boy.” Trelawny replied, subtly looking Arthur up and down.  
“Ain’t you meant to be lyin’ low at camp?” Arthur asked. He wobbled a little as he moved, Trelawny reached to steady him but Arthur batted his hand away.  
“Unfortunately, lying low doesn’t exactly pay well,” Trelawny replied.  
Arthur couldn't argue with that.

“Van Horn don’t seem like the sorta place you’d frequent, Josiah.”  
“Not really,” Trelawny conceded “but one must follow leads wherever they take them, especially if they look like they might pay handsomely.”  
Arthur couldn’t argue with that, either. 

“I don’t think I have to ask why you’re here.” Trelawny said as he guided Arthur to a secluded table away from the drunkards, the working girls and the noisy blackjack table.  
“I shouldn't think so.” Arthur replied. Van Horn was perfect. No one asked any questions. No one cared who he was and most people were too drunk to care even if they did recognise him from the crude drawing on the wanted poster. 

“You ain’t thinkin’ of takin’ off again, then?” Arthur asked Trelawny. He was a slightly slippery character in that you could never really pin him down. Arthur had known him for years but he didn’t really know him at all. Sometimes, he wondered whether Josiah Trelawny was even his real name. But Dutch liked him. It made sense to have him around, he could get into places that they couldn't and find out information they otherwise wouldn't know. Some folk worried about his loyalty, Arthur was one of them. But he hadn't betrayed them yet .

“Oh, you know me, Arthur. A rolling stone gathers no moss.”  
“That weren’t quite the phrase I had in mind for you.” Arthur replied.  
Trelawny chuckled, “I’m sure.” He watched as Arthur drank before speaking again. “You spoke to some Pinkertons, I hear?”  
He asked it like it was a question but Arthur felt like Trelawny already knew the answer.

It had been a couple of weeks ago now, before that mess in Valentine that had led them to leave Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur had taken young Jack fishing at the request of Abigail. 

Part of Arthur didn’t want to do it; Jack reminded him of his own son, Isaac who had died when he was still just a baby.  
John had run away when Abigail told him that she was with child and that it was his. John said he couldn’t be sure that the baby was his. Abigail had been devoted to John so to even question her was one of the dumbest things John had ever done.

Arthur sometimes wondered whether he should have married Abigail and given her the life she really wanted. He didn’t love her but maybe he could grow to: she was pretty and she could be kind. She was loyal and determined. She wanted out of the life, that much was obvious and sometimes Arthur did, too. As much as he _loved_ Dutch so much it hurt, he sometimes wondered what life would be like if he wasn’t in the gang. Hosea had tried to leave before but had been sucked back it; back to Dutch. Arthur supposed it never really left you, even if you tried to leave it. 

He couldn’t imagine a life away from it. What would he do? Become a rancher? Work for the government? The only thing he knew to do was lie, rob and kill. 

Little Jack wasn’t so keen on fishing. Arthur wished he’d taken him someplace else now because two Pinkerton agents showed up, Agent Ross and Agent Milton. They had offered Arthur his freedom in exchange for handing Dutch in.  
_“They were asking the wrong feller there.”_ Charles had said to him when they rode out to scout a new camp location.  
They definitely were. Arthur would rather have had them shoot him right where he stood than give up Dutch. But he kept his temper best he could because of the boy. 

“They told me I’m worth $5,000.” Arthur said to Trelawny.  
“Good grief.” Trelawny exclaimed. “It really does look like you boys caused a stir in Blackwater.”  
“Yep.”  
“I heard talk of bounty hunters for 500 miles north and south of Blackwater looking for Dutch.” He said. He’d lowered his voice and leaned into Arthur slightly. “They won’t stop until they get him, Arthur. The world is changing and maybe… Maybe we need to change too.”  
Arthur sighed. “Maybe you’re right. But do ya see Dutch changin' any time soon?”  
“Not a jot, dear boy. Not a jot.”

They drank into the night until Trelawny suggested that Arthur didn’t drink any more.  
“Perhaps we ought to go back to camp?” He suggested.  
“Nah,” Arthur replied gruffly, his head spinning as they left the saloon and the cold air slapped him in the face. “You go… Imma… I’m good here.”  
Trelawny’s brow furrowed slightly. “Arthur, I think you’ve had rather enough to drink and perhaps would benefit from some rest in your own bed.” He sounded firm but Arthur’s blurry eyes met Trelawny’s and he laughed.  
“You’re a strange man, Mr Trelawny.”  
Trelawny rolled his eyes as he walked away, “just don’t get into too much trouble, dear boy.”  
Arthur couldn’t promise that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving feedback/kudos!


	4. Cravings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s mouth was so close to his own. Arthur wanted to kiss him, to pull him close and ravish him, make him see that he could satisfy him in a way Molly O’Shea never could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost 2am so please expect typos!

A couple of days passed before he went back to camp. He stayed out at Roanoke Ridge and set up his fishing rod but didn't catch much. He didn't mind. On the way back to Clemens point, he took another detour by another saloon and drank too much. That was usually the way with Arthur Morgan.

Arthur didn't have many vices, he didn't gamble often and he wasn't a womaniser but alcohol had always been his downfall. Ever since he had been old enough to be allowed to make his own decisions by Hosea and Dutch, he remembered spending his time in saloons.  
He had liked it first because it made him feel grown up; he hated the fact that Hosea and Dutch treated him like a kid, not allowing him to have his own gun or even ride out alone.  
“It’s not fair!” Arthur had cried, sounding exactly like the kid he was telling Hosea that he wasn’t.  
“You’re fifteen, Arthur.” Hosea retorted.  
“What’s the point in teachin’ me how to shoot if I can’t even have my own gun.”  
“It’s for protection. If ya need to shoot, you will. Right now, you ain't ready for your own gun.” Hosea said, trying to reason with Arthur.  
“It’s not fair!” Arthur repeated angrily.  
“Hey!” Dutch had called from across the camp where he had been reading. His dark eyes flashed, “do you go disrespectin’ Hosea. If he says no, he means no, boy.” 

Arthur staggered as he dismounted his horse, he felt a firm hand hold him in place, “careful, cowpoke.”  
Micah’s bright, light eyes met Arthur’s. The alcohol still fizzing in his system made him roll his eyes back at him. He pulled away from Micah.  
Micah smirked, “don’t be like that, Morgan.”  
“Like what?” Arthur replied.  
Micah sighed but he was still smiling, a devilish look in his eyes. “So… hard and serious. I don’t think you cracked a smile once since we got down from them mountains.”  
“I don’t make a habit o’ smilin’ round the likes of you, Micah.” Arthur retorted.  
“Ooh!” Micah exclaimed, mockingly holding his chest as if he’d been shot, “kitty’s got claws.”

Arthur made his way back to his tent but Micah trailed after him. He blocked the entrance. “When you gonna give me a chance, Morgan?” He asked.  
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Arthur replied. 

Beyond Micah, Arthur could see Dutch watching the pair of them. For a second, their eyes met but Arthur looked away. 

“When you gonna give me a chance?” Micah repeated, he leaned into Arthur and Arthur took a couple of steps back, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “I wanna prove myself to you, Morgan. I ain’t bad.”  
“Dutch has already spoken for you.” Arthur replied dryly, “you ain’t got nothin’ to prove to me. Now, can I go to bed or are ya gonna follow me in there, too?” 

_How did we end up here?_

It was always the same dream. Fire. Fire tearing through the reservation. Charles was alone in his tent, the heat was unbearable, smoke filling his lungs so he couldn’t breathe, making his eyes smart so he couldn’t see where he was going as he stumbled out of his tent.  
He tried to call out for his parents. People were shouting and screaming. There was sudden gunfire and he cowered. He had tears streaming down his face. He was ten years old. 

He remembered seeing his mother pulled away by American soldiers, she was screaming, screaming for him. He called after her but no sound passed his lips. His father grabbed him, scooping him up, his head buried in his father’s chest so he didn’t see where his mother was being taken to. 

Charles woke up with a jolt.  
“Are… Are you ok?”  
Charles felt dazed. He sat up, he could still hear his mother’s screams ringing in his ears. His heart was pounding in his chest. It was the same dream, always the same dream. He never saw where she was taken. 

Arthur stood over him. Blue-green eyes brimming with concern.  
“Charles?” He said quietly so as not to wake the other. “You were… You were talkin’ in your sleep.”  
“Sorry.” Charles replied. He could still see the fire in the back of his mind, his mother, his father, the soldiers…

“Are you ok?” Arthur repeated and Charles nodded.  
They held each other’s gaze for a moment, longer than they would have as if they both wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“Arthur, I-”  
“Charles-”  
“Sorry.”  
“No, what were you saying?”

Arthur looked away and Charles bit down on his lip anxiously. The camp was unusually quiet. It was late, or early depending on the way you looked at it. The fires crackled, the frogs by the lake croaked and there were soft snores from some of the tents. But the silence between Arthur and Charles was loud and uncomfortable.  
“Listen… Charles…” Arthur tried again but he seemed to be unable to find what he wanted to say.

“Mr Morgan! Mr Morgan!” Both looked up to see Reverend Swanson stumbling towards Arthur. “Mr Morgan! Do you think the Pinkertons are going to kill us all?” He asked. Arthur rolled his eyes.  
Charles stood from his bedroll, mumbling something about stretching his legs and disappeared into the darkness. 

****

“Arthur?” Dutch called, penetrating Arthur’s slumber. Arthur jerked awake.  
The last thing he remembered was Javier singing by the campfire. He’d shooed Micah away from his tent. Arthur had wandered off to smoke. He was still a little drunk, he wobbled as he walked.  
He’d seen Charles tossing and turning in his sleep. All of a sudden, he’d jolted awake, a look of wild fear in his eyes. He’d seen it before the day that Charles had joined them

Arthur had stayed downstairs in the saloon drinking with Dutch. They had been out that way following a lead that hadn’t really paid as well as they’d hope… But at least it had paid some.  
“You sure ‘bout him?” Arthur asked Dutch after Charles had retired for the night.  
“Of course.” Durch replied, waving his hand as if waving Arthur’s doubt away, too.  
“I mean, we don’t know the feller and we’re not exactly lookin’ for anyone else. There’s already plenty o’ us as it is-”  
“Arthur! Where’s your faith, son?” Dutch laughed, “I got a good feelin’ about him. And you know - we feed people as needs feedin’”  
Arthur rolled his eyes and slammed back the rest of his whiskey. “I know, I know… I jus’ don’t know what Hosea will say about another passenger.”  
“You leave worryin’ about ol’ Hosea to me, son.” Dutch said. He smiled and his dark eyes gleamed devilishly. 

Arthur was drunk, drunk enough to want to pull Dutch close to him into a kiss in front of the whole saloon but not drunk enough to know that he shouldn’t.

“I should probably go to bed.” Arthur told Dutch who nodded.  
Dutch, of course, had managed to get his own room while Arthur shared with Lenny and the newly acquired Charles.  
There’d been a time whe Arthur would have shared with Dutch… 

Lenny snored softly from the bed, his book lying open on his chest as if he’d fallen asleep reading. Evelyn Miller, one that Dutch had lent him. 

Charles lay asleep on the bedroll on the floor that Arthur had put out earlier for himself. He stopped to look at Charles properly as he had not had the time to do so earlier. He was a stocky feller, built sturdier than a brick wall, Arthur knew he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, that was for sure.  
His skin was dark, eyes darker still. He looked native, with long black hair swept out of his face. Downstairs in the bar, he wore an intense expression, even after Dutch had stepped in and taken care of things for him. Even whilst sleeping, Charles looked serious, brow still furrowed, full lips still tight. His face was scarred lightly down one side and Arthur wondered what had happened to him. He wondered why Charles was out here on his own, he knew that indegenious people tended to stick together; understandable after everything that had happened… So why was Charles alone? 

Arthur was too tired to question. He sat down beside Charles and leaned across him to dim the oil lamp beside the younger man’s head. At that moment, Charles reached out, eyes still closed and grabbed Arthur’s wrist, gripping it so tight Arthur let out a yelp of surprise. Charles's eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright on the bedroll, clutching his hunting knife in his other hand.  
Charles’s large eyes were wild but Arthur could also see a wave of fear flickering through them.  
“Woah now!” Arthur exclaimed.  
“S-Sorry..” Charles stammered.

“You always sleep with a knife?” Arthur asked as Charles released his wrist.  
Charles looked embarrassed, a flush played across his cheeks and he looked away from Arthur. “It’s… A habit.... When you’re on your own you get used to having to sleep with one eye open.”

Arthur’s bright eyes were soft as they met Charles’s. Behind the serious facade, there was something vulnerable, Arthur could see that now. Maybe Dutch was right about him.  
“You’re not on your own now. We look after each other here. You're one of us now, Dutch has spoken for you.” He said gently.  
Charles nodded hesitantly.  
“Nothin’s gonna happen to you here. I’ll make sure o’ that.” 

“Arthur, what are you doing sleepin’?” Dutch asked, “you need to be out there chasing opportunities.”  
Dutch sounded disappointed. He stood over Arthur’s cot and Arthur couldn’t help but stare, stare at the way his shirt buttons were open giving him such a tantalising look at the swell of Dutch’s chest, the way the flush ran up his neck from the afternoon heat and the sweat glistened on his forehead. His raven black hair was starting to grow longer than usual, tumbling to his shoulders, wisps falling into his sparkling eyes. 

He looked slightly unkempt in a way that he wouldn’t usually be. Arthur found himself licking his lips.

“Arthur, are you even listening to me?” He looked frustrated; troubled. “Arthur?” A flare of impatience in his voice, dark brow knitted together.  
“Sorry… I…” Arthur stammered. He sat up. The world moved with him and his head spun. How much had he had to drink last night?

“Arthur, you’ve not been yourself lately, son.” Dutch said, he moved over to Arthur and sat down beside him on his cot. “Are you alright?”  
“I’m… I’m fine… I just.”  
Dutch was staring into his eyes in a way that only Dutch could, in a way that made Arthur feel sick and alive simultaneously. 

He’d heard Molly shouting at Dutch, about how he hadn’t touched her in weeks. A particularly shameless side of Arthur wanted to tell Dutch that he would let Dutch satisfy himself and not complain about anything, he wanted Dutch use him in any way he needed; he’d do anything to pleasure him, to make him happy, to make him see that Arthur was the one for him and he’d been there all along…

“Tell me, my boy,” Dutch said, almost gently.  
“I just… It’s just here, Dutch. I hate it.” Arthur said earnestly, almost sounding childish and hating himself for it.  
Dutch sighed. “I know, Arthur and I am trying. I am trying to get us out of this mess but we need money. And we won’t have money while you’re you’re lyin’ around the place like it’s some sorta hotel.” 

The anger had returned to his voice. Arthur felt his cheeks burn. He hated when Dutch was angry with him. He was supposed to be the one that Dutch could rely on.

“I’m sorry, Dutch. It’s been a tough few weeks for us all…”  
“I know that, I know!” Dutch said, sounding exasperated, his eyebrows knitted together again and he rubbed his temple as if he had a headache. He didn’t look at Arthur. “I know....” He said again, this time more quietly. “I am trying, Arthur but it ain’t easy. There’s more of us than ever before and I don’t wanna lose no one. I gotta be careful and I gotta ensure everyone’s safety…”

Arthur swallowed. Tentatively, Arthur reached towards Dutch and lay his hand on his shoulder. His shoulder was firm and strong. Arthur did his best to block out the thoughts, how he wanted Dutch to pin him down, those shoulders over them as he clawed at them while Dutched fucked him raw...  
“You’ll figure it out, Dutch. You always do.”

Dutch sighed, leaning his head back, showing Arthur the expanse of his glorious neck and throat, the temptation of those broad shoulders that lay beneath the shirt. Dutch kept his eyes closed.  
_How was he so perfect?_

“I know you ain’t happy, son. And I’m sorry, ok? I am doin’ my best with what I have.” Dutch said, eyes still closed.  
“I know.” Arthur replied quickly. An apology from Dutch never came so easily. Arthur closed his eyes, too. He was close to Dutch and they were alone in Arthur’s tent…

“Listen, Arthur. You’re the only one I can rely on. I need you strong, son.”  
“I am, Dutch.” Arthur replied.  
“That’s real good, son. Then I need you to do a job, a stagecoach...With Micah.”  
“Micah?” Arthur repeated, with a sigh. He removed his hand from Dutch’s shoulder. He should have known that Dutch wanted something… “For Christ sake… You know how I feel ‘bout him, Dutch.”  
“Then take someone else.” Dutch said, sounding pissed off. “How about Charles?”  
“Dutch… Another stage? I don’t know-”

All of a sudden, Dutch brought his hand up to Arthur’s face. Arthur stifled a gasp and opened his eyes again to be met with Dutch’s intense stare. Arthur stopped speaking in shock as Dutch cupped his cheek, caressing his face tenderly. He felt himself melt into the older man’s touch, sighing into Dutch’s palm.

“Arthur… My boy…” Dutch breathed, “I feel like after twenty tears, you’ve lost respect for me… Is that true, son?”  
Without skipping a beat, Arthur replied, “no, Dutch.”

Dutch’s mouth was so close to his own. Arthur wanted to kiss him, to pull him close and ravish him, make him see that he could satisfy him in a way Molly O’Shea never could. 

“Then please, son… For me. It would make me very happy if you did this. Don’t you want me to be happy?”  
Dutch held his gaze. His eyes burned amber. Arthur felt like he was choking, drowning, suffocating.  
Dutch's face was so close, he could feel his soft breath.  
“Of course, Dutch.”

Dutch smiled, “thank you, Arthur. You always do good for me.” He held Arthur's face for a moment longer, almost as if he knew this was agony for Arthur, then took his hand away. Arthur wanted to sob when he did so.

Arthur approached Charles who was sharpening his knife by the water’s edge.  
“Charles.” He said, his voice sounded weird leaving his mouth, images of Dutch holding him like that misting his thoughts.  
“Arthur?” He replied looking up at him, almost surprised.  
“I need you for a job.”  
“OK.” Charles was always unquestioning. 

Micah was waiting by the horses as they both approached. “What’s he here for?” He asked gruffly, gesturing at Charles.  
“Change o’ plan,” Arthur told him, “Dutch wants me to go with Charles now.”  
“What?” Micah sounded indignant, “Dutch specifically asked me and you to go-”  
“Change o’ plan.” Arthur repeated.  
“You still drunk, Morgan?” Micah asked. “Ya stink like a saloon.”  
“And you stink like Uncle’s socks, you don’t hear me complainin’.” Micah bristled. Arthur and Charles mounted up. “Take it up with Dutch if it bothers you that much.”  
With that, they left camp together and headed west. 

Dutch had told him about the stagecoach. It was coming up from Blackwater and they were to hit it before it got to Strawberry where it would make its first stop.  
“It’ll be full o’ cash.” Arthur told Charles, “we grab it and get out of there before anyone sees us.”

They rode in silence. Charles was often silent but not like this. There was a fluttering in Arthur’s chest that made him feel foolish, only overshadowed by his encounter with Dutch.

It took a while before they reached where they were planning to ambush the stage.

“We’ve got some options,” Charles said after he checked out the spot they’d chosen, a clearing after the stage would have crossed the river, “we can take ‘em out as quietly as possible as not to draw attention to ourselves...Or we could set some charges, some dynamite. It’ll make it faster.”  
“Charles, you know I ain’t good with a bow. I think we hit ‘em hard and fast and get outta there before they realise what’s happened.”  
Charles smirked, “I suppose that’s more your style.”

Arthur was too hungover to protest. Even if he weren’t hungover, even if his head weren’t pounding and with every jerk of his horse hadn’t threatened to make him spill the contents of his stomach, he’d still probably not have argued. The air between them felt dense and Arthur felt awkward. But they had a job to do and he couldn’t afford to get distracted, this needed to go smoothly; they couldn’t afford to draw any more attention to themselves.

“Micah said he was supposed to be on this job?” Charles asked him while they waited for the stagecoach.  
Arthur shrugged. “I’d rather work with a cockroach than do a job with Micah. I asked Dutch to change.”  
“So I’m… a cockroach?”  
Arthur’s eyes widened. “N-no! I didn’t mean like that!”  
Charles’s smirk returned. “I know what you mean.”

Arthur laid the dynamite along the clearing on the north side of the Montana River. Charles kept a look out on the ridge.  
Two people, a driver and a guard sat at the front and just like the stage he’d robbed with Micah, it was flanked by four armed riders. 

When Charles gave the signal, Arthur took cover. When the caravan reached their side of the river, Arthur blew the dynamite.  
The horses bolted and the riders were thrown, it was easy for Arthur to pick them off this way. Charles secured the money from the stagecoach.

It was over in a matter of moments. Far less messy than the job with Micah. Arthur wondered why Dutch had even wanted Micah involved in the first place. 

It was dark by the time they were riding back and Arthur was tired, his head still hurt. “Let’s set up camp,” he suggested.  
“Shouldn’t we get back to camp? I mean, the money..?”  
Arthur shrugged. “You’re welcome to go ahead. I don’t wanna ride all through the night to have Grimshaw complainin’ again when I sleep during the day.”  
Charles laughed quietly to himself. “I guess so.”

They rode until they found a quiet spot and Arthur began to set up camp. He put up his tent and laid down his bedroll while Charles lit the fire and cooked some meat over it for the both of them. It was a nice spot not too far from the Dakota river, sometimes Arthur camped around there when he was alone.

“Wasn’t Micah camped out somewhere round here?” Charles asked.  
“A bit further north, north of Strawberry. Livin’ up there like some caveman.” Arthur replied.  
Charles said nothing to this, merely nodding in response. 

Arthur sat by the fire, took out a bottle of bourbon he’d been saving from his satchel and drank.  
He saw the look in Charles’s eye from across the campfire where he sat.  
“You gotta problem?” Arthur asked and instantly regretted it. He didn’t mean to be so hostile, sometimes he snapped at people, sometimes it was people he didn’t mean to snap at.  
“I think you’re the one with the problem. You drink too much.” Charles said bluntly.  
Arthur looked away. He knew he did. 

He didn’t speak after that. Sometimes he said things he didn’t mean. Sometimes the drink made him say things he did mean but he never really intended to say. 

Arthur watched as Charles pulled his bedroll and a few other things off of his horse, Taima, and laid it down opposite the fire to Arthur.  
Arthur thought about Charles’s response that day and his unwavering gaze, _“no Arthur. It wasn’t wrong.”_  
Arthur had spent so long pining after Dutch, maybe this was the time to find out what would happen if he did pursue the feelings that he kept buried just with someone else…

Arthur admitted he didn’t know much about Charles at all but the tempting mystique of him was part of the attraction.  
If Arthur thought hard enough about him and Dutch, he could see beyond the fantasy. He knew that if he were to try anything, to say anything, that a look of disgust would descend on Dutch’s face. The horror that Arthur had been thinking these lewd things when all Dutch had ever done was take care of him…. It made Arthur feel sick and ashamed. He felt betrayed by his own feelings and wants. 

Over the past few days, he’d found himself thinking of Charles in the same way. If he hadn’t been so scared and pulled away, if he hadn’t fought that urge that had overtaken him in that moment… Charles hadn’t thought it was wrong.  
Did Charles feel the same things he did? About him? About other men? Did anyone feel the way Arthur did for other men? 

“It’s ok, you know.” Charles said breaking the silence.  
“What?”  
“The other day. The kiss.”  
Arthur swallowed, he felt the flush running red hot from his neck to his cheeks. He didn’t meet Charles’s gaze, the brim of his hat hiding his expression so Charles couldn’t see. 

“If you didn’t want it to mean anything then it doesn’t have to.” Charles continued, sounding cautious, “but… if it did…” He let himself trail off and didn’t finish his sentence. Arthur wasn’t sure if this was intentional.  
Eventually Arthur looked up at him. “Charles I…”

Charles was knelt beside the fire, watching Arthur carefully. His long hair swept back so Arthur could study his face; the campfire danced in his gentle eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t know what it meant.” Arthur admitted. He looked at the bottle of bourbon instead of Charles’s face. “I’ve never… Never done that before.”  
Charles made a soft sound and Arthur looked up. A faint smile played on his full lips.  
“I mean, I’ve kissed someone before I just… I…” Arthur’s flush ran deeper. “I’ve never kissed a m-man. I’ve never kissed a man before.” Why was he getting flustered? 

“Do you want to do it again?” Charles asked, “kiss a man, I mean?”  
Arthur was taken aback at how forward Charles was. 

Charles knelt beside Arthur and moved to him, Arthur let him. Before he knew it, they were kissing again. It wasn’t so uncertain this time, it felt right somehow. Charles’s lips soft and tender, tongue warm and mouth inviting. Arthur felt Charles’s hand on the back of his head, fingers laced with his hair pulling him closer and Arthur obliged, his own hands resting on Charles’s chest, fingers tightening around the material. He hadn’t realised how starved of human contact he really was.  
When was the last time he had been close to anyone? He didn’t remember. This intimacy was more intoxicating than his first drink of whiskey or his first smoke. 

Arthur sighed into the kiss, his eyes closed. His world was spinning. He hadn’t kissed someone in so long, part of him was afraid that he had forgotten how but he needn't have worried; Charles’s lips and tongue guided him as if he were walking down a road he hadn’t been down in a long, long time. 

Charles’s other hand cupped his face like Dutch’s had earlier that day. Arthur could feel Charles’s thigh pressing between his legs, moment by moment, that pressure felt more and more delicious. His hips moved on their own, he pulled Charles closer and heard Charles moan softly into his mouth.  
He felt a jolt of electricity, the hunger, the need pulsing through him with urgency.  
Charles must have felt it too because he pushed Arthur down onto his own bedroll. They stopped kissing now, both panting and looking at each other with trepidation.

Charles was hesitant but he began to unbutton Arthur’s shirt. Arthur didn’t resist. His heart pounded in his chest and he swallowed, not sure he was ready for this -whatever this was going to be. He closed his eyes as Charles lent down to kiss his neck. He was embarrassed that he let a small gasp. It felt better than he remembered it feeling.

Suddenly, Arthur saw Dutch standing before him, a look of contempt in his eyes.  
_“Is this what you call loyalty, Arthur?”_

Arthur’s eyes snapped open again and he sat up, pushing Charles away.  
Charles looked confused.  
“I-I can’t.” Arthur said to him, not able to meet his eyes. “I can’t do this.”  
He retreated into his tent and sat with his knees to his chest. He hated the way his dick was uncomfortably hard, betraying him and Dutch.

He heard Charles shifting outside. He didn’t know what to say or so. He should never have let Charles kiss him, despite it feeling so good. He wouldn’t know what to do even if it had gone further, he’d never laid with another man before. And if Dutch found out… Arthur didn’t want to think about that.

_Disloyalty. Disrespect._

Arthur drank until he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's likely I might put this fic on the back burner just as it hasn't received much attention and I can only conclude that maybe people aren't enjoying it. I don’t particularly want to be writing something that isn’t being received well or no one really likes or whatever it is because it makes me feel shitty, tbh and rn I don’t want my hobby and passion to make me feel like that.
> 
> I might update here and there as I do have the entire plot mapped out! But it won't be the regular fixture I was hoping it to be!


	5. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All Charles felt was dumb. He almost laughed as he rode back to Clemens Point. What was he thinking? Him and Arthur Morgan?! Arthur was so besotted with Dutch, Charles was surprised Arthur knew anyone else existed._

Charles left at first light. He was embarrassed. He should never have kissed Arthur again. 

He was foolish…  
He was lonely. 

Maybe he had thought that this would be different to the others, the ones with no names and no feelings… Charles desperately wanted to feel _something_. All this time, he felt numb and alone but maybe things were just better that way.

Now all Charles felt was dumb. He almost laughed as he rode back to Clemens Point. What was he thinking? Him and Arthur Morgan?! Arthur was so besotted with Dutch, Charles was surprised Arthur knew anyone else existed.

Charles hadn’t been thinking right. Maybe it was the aftermath of Blackwater still taking its toll on him. Or maybe he was just desperate, so desperate he’d disregarded his own judgement for the stupid hope that maybe someone could show him something that resembled love, for once. 

A gunslinger, an outlaw and a drunk wasn't the best place to find love nor comfort.

He had been foolish but what mattered now was that he didn’t allow himself to do it again.  
It didn’t stop Charles thinking of Arthur the whole ride back to camp, though.

Arthur had been kind and gentle when they first met and Charles still felt that deep down, that person still existed. But after Blackwater something had changed. He didn’t see that man who had been so kind to him on his first night.

When they had been at Colter, Dutch, Arthur, Javier, Micah and Bill came back from raiding a nearby O’Driscoll camp and they had also found plans to rob a train.  
Hosea had seemed pissed off. They weren’t up there to rob a train, he told Dutch. Dutch had shrugged him off as he seemed to do so often now.  
They were only up there to hide from the law but now Dutch had that look in his eye that he so often got when he had an idea.  
Dutch would do anything to hit the O’Driscolls where it hurt. He loved little more than pissing Colm O’Driscoll off and stealing the train Colm had marked for his men would definitely do that. 

As seemed to be their luck lately, the train robbery didn’t go according to plan. The dynamite that Bill lay hadn’t ignited so the train had not been derailed, meaning that Arthur, Lenny and Javier had had to scramble to jump onto the train to get it to stop. Javier had landed awkwardly and fallen clean off onto the track leaving Arthur and an inexperienced Lenny to tackle the guards and stop the train.

There were more guards than they anticipated. The reason became clear when they found out who the train belonged to: Leviticus Cornwall. 

The name didn’t seem to mean much to Dutch but Charles had heard of it. He was an extremely wealthy businessman - railroads, kerosene and tar, mines and oil… Charles had heard of him trying to get many natives to sell up and leave their land so he could look for oil where their reservations were. Cornwall was not a man to play games with. Dutch may think he was all powerful but money and infrastructure was power and Dutch had little of that. 

They got what they wanted from the train, though. Bearer bonds. Dutch reckoned he could sell them pretty easily. They saddled up, ready to leave.  
Dutch had turned to Arthur, his bandana still pulled up to cover his face

“Now, would you get rid of all of this?” He had said to Arthur like it was a question but it was definitely an order.  
“The train?” Arthur asked.  
“Yeah, get it outta here.”  
“What about them?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the three soul remaining guards from Cornwall’s train who had tried hiding in the carriage with the bonds who were now cowering on their knees in the snow.  
“What do you think?” Dutch turned the question back to Arthur, looking into his young protegie’s eyes.  
“I dunno.” Arthur shrugged.  
Dutch laughed, “it’s up to you. Kill ‘em, leave ‘em here, take ‘em with you on the train… Just make sure they don’t send no folk after us.”  
“Ok.”  
“See you back at camp,” Dutch called as he mounted up, “when you get back, we’ll be moving on.” Dutch’s voice changed suddenly, he spoke the next line almost tenderly, “And Arthur… Well done today, son.”

Charles had seen Arthur’s face change. The bandana prevented him from truly reading it but he had an idea… Dutch’s praise meant a lot to Arthur. 

Dutch addressed everyone else now, “the rest of you, let’s ride!”

Charles followed Dutch and the others back towards Colter. As they began to dig into the trail, Charles heard three gunshots ring out clearly in the still twilight, back towards the train. 

On that ride back to Colter, all Charles could think about was those gunshots. Arthur could have spared them but chose not to. Why?

Charles had seen an undercurrent frustration bubbling in Arthur’s eyes over the weeks as Dutch had grown closer to Micah and shut him and Hosea out more and more. Was he taking his anger out on Cornwall’s men who were just doing their job?

Charles remembered one time when Hosea had sat beside him one night around the campfire before the Blackwater job, he had told Charles and young Lenny wistfully that they had not always killed. They had conned, sure and they had robbed, most certainly... But killing..? They weren’t killers. Or at least they hadn’t always been. 

****

“Charles, did it go okay?” Dutch seemed to be waiting for him as he arrived back at camp. He was leaning against the horse hitching post, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt were open and he fanned himself with his hat.  
Charles slid from his horse and faced Dutch. Dutch had always been kind to him, Charles was indebted to him for that reason; he’d have starved otherwise up in the mountains… But he didn’t know whether he _liked_ Dutch. Maybe that didn’t matter, liking people was rarely the key to survival. 

“It was fine.” Charles said. He saw Micah loitering by the campfire, listening in. Maybe he was still bitter that he had been passed up at the last moment for the stagecoach job.  
“Where’s Arthur?” Dutch asked, eyes on the clearing looking for Arthur’s mustang.  
“He… He had other business to attend to.” Charles said, not meeting Dutch’s eye and busying himself with brushing Taima.  
“Yeah,” Micah chimed in, “probably propping up some bar somewhere.”  
“Micah, enough.” Dutch said firmly. He didn’t need to say anything else, his tone of voice was enough to tell Micah to drop it.

Arthur returned to camp later on that day, he didn’t look drunk but Charles couldn’t help but think that he didn’t look okay either.  
Abigail approached him before he had even dismounted.  
“Arthur, John told me to tell you that he’s gone to the Grays, somethin’ about horses? He said you’d know what it meant. He’s waiting there for you with Javier.”  
Arthur sighed. He looked across camp and his eyes met Charles’s, he looked away quickly, back to Abigail. “Ok. Thanks, Abigail.”  
He turned his horse around and left again. Charles felt something tighten in his chest, like he wanted to be sick. 

****

“$5000 dollars for horses?”  
John must have lost his mind. No one in possession of their faculties would pay that amount of money for some horses, no matter how fast they could run. John seemed to think so, though. He was adamant that there were some folks not too far from camp who were willing to buy horses without papers for premium. 

“Well, even if we make a third of that, it’ll be worth it…” Arthur muttered more to himself than the other two. He didn’t speak much more on the ride to the Braithwaite’s manor where they were going to steal the horses from based on Mr. Gray’s intelligence.  
Arthur didn’t feel like talking. He kept thinking of Charles; the way Charles had kissed him and held him close. He could see Charles pushing him down onto the bedroll, leaning over him and undressing him... He felt weak at the mere thought of it. He needed it again but… He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. 

Part of him was disgusted with himself, for wanting this. It was wrong, wasn’t it?  
_No Arthur, it wasn’t wrong._  
Then why did it feel like it?  
The other part of him was waiting for Charles to snap out of it, to realise that he wasn’t worth it. There were other people Charles could be with. Charles was handsome, young, fit and strong. He was capable and kind. He was decent and he was honest. Arthur was none of those things. He destroyed everything he touched...  
Charles deserved better, even if it was just for a quick fuck in a tent. 

“We’re here.” Javier announced, as if noticing that Arthur wasn’t really paying attention.  
They stole the horses without much of a hitch, Arthur taking care of the stablehand, snapping his neck as easily as if he had been a rabbit. Javier had kicked the man’s lifeless body for calling him a _greaser._  
John and Javier tore away while Arthur hung back to pick off any Braithwaites dumb enough to follow them.  
The only hitch was that John’s $5000 dollars was quickly reduced to less than a grand. Arthur would have ripped John a new hole if he could have been bothered but he couldn’t be. Over the past few weeks, he had gotten used to plans not working out and them not being paid what they were due. 

“You’re a bigger fool than I thought.” Arthur growled as he handed John and Javier their share of the money.  
“Hey, we got paid didn’t we?” Javier said in defense of John who couldn’t meet Arthur’s eye.  
Arthur didn’t argue with him.

They went back to camp, John disappeared after he dismounted his horse with his tail between his legs no doubt. Arthur stormed off to his tent.  
“Arthur!” Dutch had called but Arthur had ignored him. “Well fuck you then!” 

He could smell Pearson’s stew but it had the opposite effect on him - rather than making him hungry, it repulsed him.  
He sat behind his tent and drank.  
He couldn’t say when he had started to drink as heavily as he had. It had always been a problem, the problem being he didn’t know when to stop. One or two beers didn’t do anything for him. Whiskey, rum or brandy made the world spin, made his head spin until he couldn’t remember his name sometimes. But that was okay. 

He used to drink out of boredom. He remembered going to the saloon with John when they were younger when they had no work and taking shots as something to pass the time. Soon though, there weren’t so many drunken stories. Mainly because he couldn’t remember them but also because he spent almost all of his time either drunk or hungover.  
He had realised that when he was drunk, he didn’t feel so bad anymore. He didn’t feel bad about the people he killed, the choices he made, the people he had loved and lost… He didn’t feel bad about himself. The pain dissipated. When he was drunk, he was free from the grips of a depression that he had been in for too long. He’d gotten used to being constantly hungover the next day because as long as he didn’t have to think, he was happy. Or so he thought.

The world began to grow fuzzy and he leant his head back on the wagon where he was sitting. When he closed his eyes he could see Charles sitting before him, his beautiful dark hair loose around his face, his endless brown eyes staring into his own making his heart jolt.  
_”Do you want to do it again? Kiss a man, I mean?”_  
He did. He did so very much that he ached. He wanted to kiss Charles again, wanted to go back to the tent and let Charles finish undressing him.  
This was different to the way he imagined Dutch which was so primal and animalistic in a way.  
His mouth watered at the thought of seeing Charles bare. He’d seen him without a shirt before, muscles rippled beneath smooth, exquisite dark skin. He wanted to reach out and touch him, wanted to feel that smooth skin beneath his mouth as he kissed and licked his way down to Charles’s crotch.  
He didn’t know what it would be like but he could imagine Charles on top of him, weight pressing down, he could imagine their breathing, heavy and hard, he could hear his moans and Charles’s moans making the air thick...

He shook the image away. 

He got to his feet again after his whiskey had run dry and staggered back towards the campfire.  
He could see Micah sitting at the table closest to his tent, there were a few people milling around though others had already gone to bed, Arthur saw that Dutch’s tent flaps were closed and so were John’s.

Charles was walking towards the entrance of the camp, presumably to take up guard duty. Arthur felt like he should say something to him but he wasn’t sure what. When he had woken up that morning, Charles was already gone. He felt embarrassed and ashamed.  
Before he could decide what to do, Micah had called out to Charles, “hey, redskin. Go fetch me something to eat.”  
Charles stopped walking. He stood still, not looking at Micah. “Excuse me?” He said, his voice low and menacing. Arthur hadn’t heard that in him for a while, not since they had rode out and discovered a couple of idiots mindlessly killing bison and leaving them to rot. 

Micah got to his feet and faced Charles, “I said, fetch me something to eat.” He pushed Charles by the shoulder as he spoke, a hint of horrible smugness in his voice. 

Charles was a touch shorter than Micah but much more muscular and he had youth on his side. Micah was overweight and was getting old, too old to think he could win in a fight against Charles.  
Arthur saw Charles’s fists ball. He was still for a split second before grabbing Micah by the shirt collar and throwing him to the ground hard with a dull thud.  
“Eat that.” He snapped before walking away.  
Micah struggled to sit up, “you wanna watch that temper of yours, boy!” He called after him, catching his breath. He noticed Arthur standing in front of him, “what you lookin’ at cowboy?” He said trying to sound as offhand as usual but he sounded shaken. He dusted himself down but there was mud over his light pants making it look like he’d had an unfortunate accident. 

Arthur smirked, “he sure showed you,” he said to Micah, unable to stifle a laugh. If Arthur had been sober, maybe he wouldn’t have pushed his luck but he couldn’t see that Micah’s ego was bruised. “You know, you think you’re really something, don’t ya?”  
Micah rounded on Arthur, “do I? Maybe you should take a look at yourself.”  
“What’s that ‘sposed to mean?”  
Micah rolled his eyes at Arthur, “why don’t you take another drink, Morgan?” 

Arthur took Micah’s place at the table, watching him walk away. A welcome cool breeze caressed his skin. The majority of the camp was asleep now. He wanted to go to Charles but didn’t know what he would say.

The sound of Molly giggling from Dutch’s tent floated to Arthur and he heard Dutch croon, “Miss O’Shea…”  
“Oh, Dutch! Stop!” Molly said in a way that sounded very much like she didn’t want Dutch to stop at all. 

Arthur had heard it all before, too many times. Dutch’s appetite for sex had always been an unquencable one - sex was one of Dutch’s many vices. When he had no woman, he used whores and even when he had a woman, he’d still use whores. 

Arthur heard Molly moan, breathy and soft. He felt a judder of jealous jerk through him.  
“Dutch…” She gasped.  
Arthur could hear movement, could hear the noises coming from Molly. He heard Dutch chuckle darkly.  
“Dutch, I love you.” Molly breathed.  
There was a pause before Dutch said, “then prove it, my dear. Show me.” 

Was it wrong for Arthur to close his eyes and to imagine Dutch whispering that into his ear?

_Prove it, Arthur. Show me how much you love me._

Was it wrong for him to imagine Dutch standing before him, looking down with such dark intent, with anticipation for Arthur to prove his love, his devotion..?  
He could almost feel Dutch’s hands on the back of his head, using his mouth to bury his cock. He’d moan and cuss and whisper Arthur’s name in praise, his head hung back so Arthur could see the glorious column of neck exposed.  
Maybe Dutch would permit him to stand, to kiss his neck, his throat, his shoulder, make him shiver and gasp so slightly. He’d allow Arthur to undress him, revealing each part of his majestic body part by part...  
Arthur already knew the muscles, the hair… But he wanted to smell Dutch’s scent, wanted to taste him… Dutch was forbidden fruit and the longer Arthur hungered for it, the more enticing it became.

The clink of Dutch’s belt ripped Arthur out of his fantasy.  
He heard Molly make a small noise, a sound of discomfort and he heard Dutch grunt.  
The image in Arthur’s mind changed, he could see Dutch pushing into her, his cock thick and generous  
Dutch didn’t savor it. Arthur could hear the pace was fast and hard. Molly cried out, forgetting herself, Arthur knew that would make Dutch more aroused. He was in control while others came undone, that was how he liked it.  
He heard Dutch moan her name. He was overcome with a burning rage. The fantasy was gone. They were fucking loudly, purposefully so, as if mocking Arthur.

He rose to his feet and adjusted his erection. He hated himself for it.

He strode towards the horses, passing the main campfire where Lenny and Sean were sitting, nudging each other and tittering like children. Arthur grabbed a bottle of whiskey and took a swig.  
Micah was now sitting at the campfire. “Why don’t you join us, Morgan?” Micah asked, seemingly forgetting his run in with Charles, “listen to the show.”  
“Get fucked, Micah.”  
“With pleasure,” Micah purred.

Arthur downed the whiskey and threw the bottle towards the fire. It smashed and Sean laughed and swore, “take it easy there, Morgan!”

Arthur could see Charles, facing outwards, a rifle resting on his shoulder as he leaned against a tree. Arthur walked towards him with intent.  
The snap of twigs behind Charles made him turn, “Arthur?” He put the gun down.  
Without warning, Arthur pushed Charles against the tree he leaned against, kissing him hard. Charles made a noise of surprise into Arthur’s mouth but didn’t protest. 

“A-Arthur..?”  
“I want you, Charles.” Arthur said gruffly.

He smelled strongly of whiskey and although Charles had promised himself he wouldn’t entertain this idea of him and Arthur anymore, he surrendered himself to Arthur. 

Arthur kissed hard, his beard scratched, his lips were chapped and rough. His mouth attacked Charles's neck and throat

Charles felt Arthur’s hands on him, grabbing at him and Charles realised that he was doing the same; grabbing at Arthur, tugging at the material of his shirt so that he could feel the skin beneath.  
He could feel the bulge in Arthur’s pants pressing against his hip, he reached for it, feverishly unbuckling Arthur’s pants and belt. Arthur growled into Charles’s mouth as he freed his straining erection and palmed his cock.

Arthur stopped kissing now, he made a low rumbling sound in his chest and let his eyes close as Charles took hold of him. Charles stroked him, his cock was thick and hot, urgent and needing to be touched. Arthur moaned and swore as Charles’s hand pumped him and twisted now and then. Charles loved the way Arthur moved against him, how he could feel Arthur shiver when his hand sped up, slowed down or applied pressure to the tip or gripped the base.  
“Shit, Charles,” Arthur sighed.

Arthur reached down to Charles now, unbuttoning his pants and hesitantly taking Charles into his hand.  
Charles felt the heat rise in his cheeks and he couldn’t help but let a small sound escape his lips. It felt good, of course it did, it always felt better when it was someone else.  
Arthur stroked him, matching Charles’s pace.  
Charles rested his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, both of them breathlessly stroking the other, both panting, aware that if they made too much noise, anyone from the camp could be alerted. Part of that danger made it all the more exciting

Charles felt Arthur shake, his orgasm imminent. He caught Charles’s lips again and kissed him passionately, his tongue slid into Charles mouth and Charles tasted the whiskey from him, Arthur’s free hand tangled with Charles’s hair, pulling him closer still. 

Arthur came first, “Charles!” He repeated, “s-shit!” He caught his breath, burying his head in the crook of Charles’s neck, muffling his sounds. Shuddering, he released into Charles’s hand.  
Charles held Arthur close as he spilled himself too, biting down on his lip so he didn’t moan too loudly.  
They stilled, both panting, not moving apart. The night was still too, only that gentle cool breeze and the sound for crickets could be heard as thet both caught their breath, the euphoria from their orgasms dying down.  
“Arthur…” Charles started but he wasn’t too sure what he wanted to say. Charles wanted to stay like this but he could hear something. Singing and it was getting closer.

Arthur must have heard it too because he moved away from Charles as if he were on fire and quickly tucked himself back into his pants. Charles did the same.  
Sean was staggering towards them with a bottle of beer in his hand. “Ah, sorry fellers, I just need to take a leak…” He mumbled, making his way to a secluded spot.

Charles turned back to Arthur but Arthur had already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos, comments and feedback welcome :)


	6. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Charles hadn’t meant to care for Arthur. He had never meant to stick around as long as he had. He guessed he only had himself to blame._

_How did we end up here?_

The wind howled mercilessly. Arthur's lungs felt like they were glass and shattered when he tried to breathe, shards slicing at his flesh.  
He didn’t remember what had happened. How had he ended up here? Where even was here? It was dark and he couldn’t see, couldn’t move… Couldn’t breathe. 

He heard someone calling his name again. They sounded so faint and distant Arthur wondered whether they were really there at all. 

He parted his dry lips. Taste of copper. No sound escaped. His body hummed with pain as he tried his best to move. 

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was what awaited us all at the end….

****

Arthur swilled the bottle. The sun was only just rising and he was drinking.  
There was a darkness inside of him, he knew that. He felt it, felt it knotting in his stomach. It was all consuming, it wrapped itself around him, constricting him, his own sadness bound to him, forcing him to carry it wherever he went. The only way he could loosen those ties was to drink until he couldn’t feel them anymore.  
It made him weak and he hated it. He doused that darkness with whiskey, like trying to extinguish the flames of a fire.

Sometimes he would get drunk and antagonise the other members of the camp, sick of how some of them complained all the time or didn’t pull their weight, only to wake up lying on the ground a couple of hundred feet from the camp with a pain in his head and a black eye.  
_”There need to be rules, Arthur,”_ Dutch would say to him, _”drink ain't your friend.”_  
Arthur was beginning to wonder what the rules were. Dutch wouldn't tolerate him being drunk in camp but would accept Micah calling Charles a redskin. It didn't seem right.

The darkness stirred inside of him, he’d felt unrest since that night that he’d heard Dutch and Molly and went to Charles for comfort. He still couldn’t even be sure that it had happened at all; his head showed him fragments of that night, like pieces of a photograph for him to put together and figure out what happened. Charles had been avoiding him again. He knew he’d done something wrong but couldn’t remember what.  
Arthur felt his darkness pressing on him again, holding him until he couldn't breathe as if holding his head under water. He drank the whiskey until the darkness whined and cowered, until he felt numb but couldn't feel it seeping into every corner of his body.

The camp had started to stir. He could smell Pearson beginning to prepare the stew. Kieran was fussing over the horses and Uncle was stumbling around, still drunk from the night before. Arthur could see Micah lingering around the corner of the camp like a dark cloud. He’d been eyeing Dutch’s tent but the tent was closed and there’d been no movement since Dutch had gone o bed he night before.

Hosea sighed as he lowered himself down across the table from Arthur.  
“Mornin’,” Arthur mumbled. He didn’t look up at Hosea. Arthur knew that Hosea was disappointed in him. Hosea had raised him along with Dutch and while Dutch had taken care of him, it was Hosea who had _raised_ him. He knew Hosea cared for him like a son and if Arthur had a son like himself, he knew he’d be disappointed, too.

“Y’know, y’drink too much, Arthur.”  
Arthur didn’t answer but that didn't seem to bother Hosea. Hosea continued as if Arthur had replied. “I know, Arthur. I used to drink, too. You remember. I drank every day after my Bessie died... Drinkin’ was the only thing that numbed it all and made me forget… Dutch helped me. He helped me stop. Made me realise that it was killin’ me even though I wished I was dead, too. Drink won’t solve nothin’, Arthur. Whatever’s makin’ you feel bad, drink is just coverin’ it up.”

Arthur couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t feel like this. Sometimes that sadness, that darkness was almost comforting; it was the only thing he could be sure of. People left, people died, but he always felt the same.  
“Arthur? Arthur, are you listening?”  
Arthur looked up at Hosea now, Hosea’s eyes were gentle and concerned. “Sure, Hosea.”  
Hosea sighed, “Arthur, I’m just worried.”  
“I don’t need ya worryin’ about me, Hosea. I’m a big boy now, I can handle a little drink now and then.” Arthur said gruffly as he stood up to walk away, not needing a lecture at this time of the day.  
“Yeah? Well it ain’t ever a little drink, is it?” Hosea said but Arthur chose to ignore it. Hosea coughed after he spoke; he had been coughing a lot, even before the Blackwater job. It was an awful cough, uncontrollable and chesty. Dutch wanted him to go to a doctor but he refused, making his own medicine from ginseng. 

Arthur turned back to Hosea. “Are you alright?” He asked. He went to his side of the table, putting a hand on Hosea’s back but Hosea shrugged him off.  
“I- I’m fine..!” He spluttered. Hosea was a proud man. He hated the fuss the likes of Arthur, John or Dutch made over him. _”I ain’t dead yet,”_ he’d say indignantly. 

“Ya don’t sound fine.” Micah’s voice drawled across to them. “Ya sound like shit, old man.” He had made his way across to them, standing on the other side of the table where Arthur had just been sitting.  
Arthur felt his blood boil. He could deal with Micah most of the time but not when he was being a _prick_ towards others.

“Why don’t you shut up?” Arthur growled.  
“Why don’t you make me, sugar?” Micah said smoothly, a smirk playing across his lips and his eyes sparkling with delight at the reaction he got from Arthur.  
Arthur marched over to him, shoving him, “you really wanna try me, scumbag?”  
Micah laughed darkly. “I’d like to see you try, Morgan.”  
Micah shoved Arthur back. Arthur may have been drunk but he was still bigger and stronger than Micah, just.

Arthur grabbed Micah by the collar, Micah continued to laugh. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered, “look at you, three sheets to the wind and we ain’t even had breakfast yet.”  
“You shut yer mouth, Micah because I would gladly shut it for you.” Arthur hissed.  
Micah’s smirk grew darker, his face was less than an inch from Arthur’s. Arthur could feel his hot breath on him and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
“Pathetic,” Micah repeated, “always tryna pick a fight and what for? To impress Dutch? He don't give a shit about you no more Morgan.”  
Arthur’s rage exploded. He roared as he threw Micah to the ground, taking him by surprise. All the anger he felt was released on Micah. Before he knew it he was knelt above him, punching him repeatedly in his smug face. 

There were arms around Arthur very quickly, pulling him off of Micah. “Stop it right now, Arthur!” It was Dutch.  
Arthur was breathing heavy, knees slicked with mud from the ground, knuckles bloody. Dutch’s dark eyes were stern, he glared at Arthur. Arthur was still so mad he couldn't think about how Dutch held him to stop him beating the living daylights out of Micah.

Micah was still laughing as he got to his feet, wiping the blood from his lip which was now busted.  
“He started it!” Arthur snapped, pulling against Dutch who held him firmly by the forearm, still blinded by rage.  
“Calm yourself, Arthur.” Dutch said softly as Micah walked away.  
“He riles me up, Dutch! You know how i feel about him-”  
“I know, son, I know. He ain’t a bad man.”  
“He ain’t a man, he’s a snake!”

Dutch sighed. “ Everyone’s miserable. They’re hungry, Arthur.” Arthur blinked, confused as to why Dutch had changed the subject. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go huntin’?”  
“I aint no hunter, Dutch you know that.”  
“Take Charles with you then. It’ll do you good to get out of camp.”  
Arthur frowned. He didn’t understand why he was the one being asked to leave camp and not Micah. He also felt nervous about going anywhere with Charles, not until he had properly pieced together what had happened…

“Dutch-” Arthur began to protest but Dutch was used to that tone and silenced Arthur immediately.  
“Arthur, I’m askin’ nicely. Please, will you do this for me?”  
Arthur nodded, “yes.”  
Dutch caught Arthur’s chin with his hand, forcing his face up so that he looked into Dutch’s eyes. “Yes what?” He said, his voice low and would have been threatening if it weren’t for the look in his eyes. It made Arthur’s heart thump that little bit harder.  
“Y-yes Dutch.”

Charles had seen the whole thing. He’d been busying himself the last few days and avoiding Arthur again. He wondered whether he might have to leave the camp for good.  
He had thought it didn’t matter, that it had just been a stupid kiss that didn’t mean anything and didn’t have to. Only it had. It had meant something, he had felt something and now he didn’t know how to stop it.  
He had cared for Arthur, yes. He’d had a soft spot for him since the day they met because Arthur had been kind but Charles wasn’t the sort of person who gave himself away easily. He’d learned the hard way that it only ever ended badly if he allowed himself to do that; to be soft, to be vulnerable, to care.  
He hadn’t meant to care for Arthur. He had never meant to stick around as long as he had. He guessed he only had himself to blame.

Up at Colter, he had ridden out with Arthur to go hunting together. Arthur wasn’t much of a hunter, barely knew how to shoot a bow but Charles’s hand was still injured from the botched ferry job.  
“We ain’t never talked that much you and me,” Arthur had pointed out as they rode back to the camp, two deer strapped to the back of their respective horses. “How long you been with us now? Five or six months?”  
“Something like that.” Charles replied. The storm had died down overnight and it was still now. Charles liked the mountains, the remoteness, the calm and the fact that the only people who would come after you this far out had to be crazy. 

“Bet you didn’t expect this.” Arthur said, his voice gruff. He was tired, they all were.  
“What?”  
“Any of this,” Arthur said, gesturing around with his free hand that didn’t hold the reins of his new horse, his last one, a beautiful Missouri foxtrotter called Boadicea was lost in the fallout of Blackwater. “The Blackwater mess, being stuck up here…”  
“Sooner or later, a job’s gonna go wrong,” Charles reasoned.  
They rode in silence, Arthur just a little ahead. Charles found his eyes settling on the back of Arthur absentmindedly.  
“I just thought…” Arthur said after a little while, “I thought you mighta moved on by now.”  
Charles was a little taken aback, “you… want me to move on?” Charles asked.  
“No!” Arthur replied hastily, “no, not at all. Just sayin’... I know you can run it alone no problem.”

That was true. Charles didn’t _need_ the gang at all, if anything it made things more difficult; he lost a lot of his hard earned cash to the tithing box, he spent a disproportionate amount of his time doing chores around camp while people like Micah and even Arthur didn’t raise a finger to help… And lastly, he was becoming attached.  
Charles liked falling asleep listening to Javier playing guitar and singing softly and he liked the fact that when he returned back from wherever he’d been, even if it was the early hours of the morning, that there was always someone there to greet him. He liked the sense of belonging he had with the gang. He wasn't sure if he had ever felt that he truly belonged anywhere.

“I did that for a _long_ time.” Charles replied, “I’m done with it. Always wondering’ if someone’s gonna kill you in your sleep.”  
“Still wonder that most nights…” Arthur chuckled.  
“I reckon you’re ok. Anyway, this suits me. Sure, I could fall in with another gang but Dutch… Dutch is different.”  
“Dutch is certainly different…”  
“He treats me fair.” Charles said earnestly, “Most of you do - for a feller with a black father and in Indian mother, that ain’t usually the case.”  
“Well, we need you now, more than ever.”  
“Good. How long you been with these boys. Why ain’t you run off?”  
“Oh, twenty years, something like that? Since I was a boy.”  
“Twenty years?!” Charles repeated. He was shocked, he knew Arthur was Dutch’s right hand man. He knew that Dutch trusted him more than anyone else but twenty years…  
“Yeah. He taught me to read, John too. Taught me a few other things - him and Hosea.”  
Charles smirked, “I’m sure.”  
“Dutch saved me, saved most of us. That’s why we need to stick by him through this. He always sees us right.”

Charles had thought about that conversation after Arthur had shot the guards from Cornwall’s train. It made sense now. It made sense that Arthur was the way he was, would do whatever Dutch wanted without Dutch even having to say what it was that he wanted.  
_Brainwashing_ Charles had thought to himself. Twenty years will do that to you…

The way Arthur looked at Dutch now, Dutch’s hand still on his face''. Charles saw Arthur’s gaze, how he looked at Dutch as if Dutch was his god. He saw how Arthur melted into Dutch’s touch. Dutch returned Arthur’s gaze, his own eyes burning with dark intensity; a hunger. 

So Charles found himself saddling up and riding out with Arthur. Charles urged Taima on so that he was ahead of Arthur. He couldn’t face talking to him. His head swam with that night outside the camp; he could feel Arthur’s heat against him, his hands pulling at him desperately, kissing hard, moaning into his mouth and gasping his name. 

Arthur fell behind and didn’t attempt to keep up. Part of Charles wanted him to. Charles had been wanting Arthur to take him aside, wanted Arthur to kiss him again and tell him he cared for him. That night, Sean had stumbled drunkenly towards them, mumbling something about needing to take a leak. When Charles had looked up, Arthur had disappeared. He understood why, Sean had spooked him but to not address it again, to ignore Charles in that way….  
It hurt. Charles hated that it hurt. It meant that he had let Arthur in.

Charles rode to Heartland Overflow and hitched Taima. He began to prepare his bow and checked his arrows. He didn’t look up when the white mustang trotted over to him. Arthur dismounted and hitched his horse beside Taima.  
Charles couldn’t let himself look up. He would not be weak again.  
Arthur shifted his weight awkwardly, “Charles..?”  
Charles stood up abruptly, “should be able to catch some deer around here.” He said. There was no emotion in his voice, he was good at that.  
“O-Ok…” Arthur replied  
“You don’t have to come. It’ll be quicker if I did it.” Charles didn’t want Arthur to follow him, even though he did. He so desperately did but what good would it do?

Arthur’s brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”  
“You’ve never been that good with a bow.”  
Charles busied himself looking for tracks. He could feel Arthur hovering awkwardly by him.

“Charles, what’s wrong?” Arthur asked.  
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Charles replied monotonously.  
“Well it sure don’t feel like it.”  
“Arthur, please… Let me just get some food for camp and we can go back.”  
“Charles, would you look at me?”

Charles sighed. “Arthur-”  
“Look at me.”  
Charles looked up at Arthur. Part of him wondered what the hell he was doing, what did he see in Arthur Morgan? Arthur was dishevelled, still muddy from his fight with Micah. His sky blue shirt was dirtied with mud and dried blood. His beard was growing out, as was his blond hair which was past his collar now. But it was in his eyes, in his gentleness, in his gruff but soft voice. Somehow it had wound its way around Charles’s heart.

“Why you actin’ like nothin’ happened?” Arthur challenged. Those azure eyes were clouded over.  
Charles almost laughed. "Me actin' like nothin' happened?!" Charles’s eyes swam with emotions as they met Arthur's, his usually serene and handsome face now looked pained and full of rage. He hated that he was letting this happen to him. This wasn’t him.

“I’m not some play thing you can pick up whenever you feel like it and cast me aside when it suits you, Arthur!” Charles found himself saying hotly. He’d been thinking about what he wanted to say to Arthur for days after the last encounter but none of it came out now. He was overtaken with just how _infuriating_ Arthur was. "You ran off and left me there yet you were the one that came to me! I'm not a play thing."

“I… it's not like that, Charles.” Arthur replied pathetically. It made Charles’s blood boil. Then why had Arthur not said anything to him? He had found Charles, out of everyone in the camp, and breathed, _“I want you Charles.”_ He'd kissed so hard, he'd held Charles close as he shook... Did it really not mean anything to him?  
“Ain't it? Because that's what it feels like. When you're lonely or frustrated, you come to me. You make me look like a fool.” Charles could feel a flush in his cheeks, speaking so frankly made him uncomfortable. 

Arthur was shaking his head, taken aback by Charles's outburst. “Charles, no one thinks you’re a fool.” He moved closer to him, reaching for him but Charles couldn’t allow it, wouldn’t have himself used by Arthur any more. He knocked his hand away.

“It won't stand for it,” Charles told him firmly. “I will not be made a fool. You've lead me on."  
“I… I'm sorry.” Arthur said dumbly.  
“I don’t know what you want from me, Arthur!” Charles had raised his voice. Arthur looked shocked. Charles was too.  
“I…” Arthur’s eyes couldn’t meet Charles’s. “I don’t know, Charles. I don’t know what I want.”  
“Come back to me when you figure it out, Arthur. I can’t do this… Whatever this is.”  
“Charles…”  
“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness… I’m tired and I can’t do this.”  
Arthur’s face fell. If Charles didn’t know better he’d have sworn he saw those eyes glassy with tears but that wasn’t like Arthur at all.  
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.  
“Just go back to camp, Arthur. I don’t want to see you anymore.” 

Sean was on guard duty when Arthur returned. His eyes were closed but they opened as he heard hooves approaching.  
“I weren’t sleepin’!” He said.  
Arthur felt a hollow chuckle escape him. “Never said you was.”  
Sean sighed and put a cigarette between his lips, offering one out to Arthur. Arthur accepted. Sean struck a match and lit his then Arthur’s.

“Thought you and Charles were goin’ out huntin’?” Sean asked.  
Arthur shrugged. “I ain’t much of a hunter.”  
They smoked in silence for a while, Arthur replaying what Charles had said over and over. He felt sick with guilt. He _didn't_ know what he wanted. He knew he just wanted to be around Charles all the time... He just didn't know how.

“Arthur..?” Sean said with uncertainty.  
“Hmm?”  
“I… Ugh… I saw you an' Charles the other day.” Arthur’s eyes widened but Sean shook his head, “I ain’t here to judge. I… I think he’d be good for you. Like, he’s a moody sod but he’s a good man.”  
Sean couldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, he focused on his cigarette. “It... it gets lonely, out here. Real lonely… so it's nice to find someone to share things with. I know you don't like me much Arthur but… well you're the closest thing to family. You've always been good t' me… You deserve someone to share things with.”  
Sean was blushing hard when he looked back up at Arthur. Arthur smiled weakly, “thanks Sean. I don’t think we’ll be sharin’ much anymore.” Arthur sighed. “I messed it up, as usual.”  
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Morgan.”  
Arthur shrugged in response. It was true. He’d hurt Charles. All he did, all he ever did was push people away and hurt them. 

****

The next day, Arthur saw Micah hovering outside Dutch’s tent again. He hated that Micah was worming his way in with Dutch. Everyone could see it but Dutch himself. Why did he have such a hold over him?

Arthur hadn’t intended to get involved but the alternative was to hang around camp all day with his thoughts and lately, they hadn’t been the best company.  
Charles had returned at first light with a large buck. He threw it on Pearson’s table then took off again. Arthur felt like he had a knife in his stomach and it was being twisted.  
“Somethin’ happened between you two?” Hosea asked, “you both seem more miserable than usual.” If it weren’t Hosea who had said that, Arthur probably would have punched them.  
He downed half a bottle of gin before finding out what Micah was doing clinging to Dutch like a bad smell.

It turned out to be some crackpot scheme to meet with Colm O’Driscoll. Pearson had met up with a couple of his boys, said they wanted some sort of parlay.  
“A parlay?” Hosea had asked over the top of his newspaper. “It’s a trap.”  
Arthur was inclined to agree as was Dutch but Micah had his serpent’s tongue in Dutch’s ear again… So not thirty minutes later were they saddling up ready to leave.

Dutch insisted on Arthur coming for protection. “Oh my dear and trusted friend, with you watching over me, I would walk into hell itself.” Dutch said to him.  
Arthur would have cherished this sentiment had he not thought that maybe they really were walking into hell itself. Colm O’Driscoll? A parlay? It just didn’t seem right. 

And it wasn’t. Arthur was sent up on the ridge to keep watch with his rifle, take care of things if they got out of hand but he never got a chance to do that. He heard footsteps quickly approaching behind him and the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos and feedback always welcome!


	7. Thirst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Micah lay down for a while. He didn’t always feel comfortable sleeping in a large group of people; sure, he had grown to like the gang but that didn’t mean he trusted them. He had spent a long time alone, floating from one group of people to another, sleeping with one eye open and one hand on his revolver._

Charles rode out from camp not long after Arthur, Micah and Dutch left. He couldn’t stay in camp much longer: the incessant chatter from Sean, John and Abigail’s monumental arguments that gave Dutch and Molly a run for their money, Susan barking at the women at every opportunity, was driving him insane. Reverend Swanson’s drunken singing reminded him too much of Arthur…

Charles found himself gazing at Arthur’s tent like some puppy dog. Maybe that was what he was to Arthur but he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d told him so and he meant it. He was no white man’s toy.

He gave Taima a swift, light kick and she galloped away from camp. Charles wanted to run as fast as he could go but he knew well enough that he could run a thousand miles but he would never be able to outrun himself. That was why he was so despondent to Dutch’s tactic of causing a lot of noise then running away from it. No matter where they hid, they were still them; still bad people, still outlaws and murderers. 

_”It’s a big country,”_ Arthur had said before when Charles had asked him how long they would keep running for. He wasn’t wrong, it _was_ a big country but unlike Arthur, Charles didn’t have a bounty on his head in two states. If Charles wanted to leave and get lost, he could. He’d even considered going further north to Canada. North suited him, the cold kept people away and Charles preferred that. He was no good around people, he understood that now. He’d gotten too comfortable and it showed.

He’d spent so long chasing a dream of belonging, spent so long hunting for love and affection, for connection and closeness that was never meant to be and he was finally coming to terms with that now.

He was still hurt by Arthur’s disregard for his feelings but maybe he should never have allowed Arthur to kiss him in the first place, he should never have allowed it to continue to where they were now.

Charles rode towards Cumberland Forest, he’d always found that area so picturesque  
He needed time to think. He didn’t see many people up this way, just nature - tall trees, large hills and fields full of colourful flowers. He liked it around there, maybe if he wasn’t on the run, he’d have settled down there.

Should he leave the gang? Dutch probably wouldn’t be surprised. He didn’t know whether he would have his blessing though, he knew too much about the gang but it felt dishonest to slip away without informing anyone. But what was really keeping him there? Arthur? The fact that people were kind to him for the most part - most likely because they wanted him to do all the jobs they didn’t want to do for them..? 

He was consumed by thoughts but it was the sound of horses approaching fast that ripped him from it.  
There was shouting, the wheels of a wagon and the pop of gunfire in the near distance.  
Charles urged Taima on, following the source of the sound. He could see a wagon in the distance with what looked like people inside. It was the sort of wagon he associated with lawmen but the people inside looked young, they looked like children.

Chasing the wagon were four horses ridden by men. At first Charles was confused. It wasn’t uncommon to see a wagon transporting criminals being attacked by allies of the people inside but this was different. The men that rode after the wagon were native. Their hair was long and dark, like Charles’s. They carried bows and arrows, Charles heard them shouting “stop! They’re just children!”

It was like an instinct. Without thinking, Charles urged Taima to follow. His hand reached for his gun and he sped ahead, flattening his body to the appaloosa’s.  
Charles was not a violent man. Not if he could help it. There weren’t many situations he could think of where things were better if lives were lost. But this was different. This was people being taken from their homes, forced to leave through violence. It was how he lost his mother, his tribe… It was how all of the natives had lost their land and their lives… Charles wouldn’t stand by if he could help.  
Charles favoured a sawn off shotgun rather than a revolver for his sidearm. It was slower only firing two rounds at a time but it dealt more damage. Charles only had to aim twice, once at the driver, the second at the guard at his side. There was no one flanking them, they must have thought that there would be no one attempting to rescue the children.

Charles’s shots were quick and clean, in the head and the neck, just like he would a deer. The wagon came to an eventual stop, the native men stopped alongside and began to free the children from the wagon.  
Charles watched on. One of the men approached him. He was a young man, scarcely twenty. He was handsome, lithe but muscular and strong looking.  
“I am Eagle Flies of the Wapiti people. I can’t thank you enough for your help today, friend.” He spoke with confidence and assuredness.  
“I’m happy to help. I’m Charles Smith.”  
“I saw you before,” Eagle Flies said, “you were coming to the Heartlands from the north with a caravan.”

Charles remembered seeing the young man and two others watching them on the hills when the wheel came off of the wagon that Arthur was driving.  
“Poor bastards,” Hosea had said, “we really screwed them over down here.”  
Arthur had frowned, “what happened?”  
Hosea went on to explain, “the Indians in these parts got sold a very raw deal. This is the Heartlands we’re going to, good farming and grazing country, they lost it all… Stolen clean away from them it was, every blade of grass. Killed or herded up to the reservations in the middle of nowhere.”  
“And how’s that different from anywhere else?” Charles had asked, the cold tone of his voice didn’t go unnoticed.  
“Well, maybe it’s not…” Hosea conceded, “I just heard some of the army out here was... particularly unpleasant about it.”  
Charles scoffed. “Unpleasant? How do you rob and kill people pleasantly? We don’t, despite Dutch’s talk.”  
“I fear I was trying to simplify something more complicated for the benefit of our blockheaded driver here.” Hosea replied.  
“Hey! Don’t blame it on me,” Arthur said indignantly.

Charles hadn’t blamed it on Arthur. He was used to his heritage being brushed under the carpet by white folk, they used fancy words to hide the reality of what they had done; they _acquired_ land, they _relocated_ the natives in a bid to _expand_ and _modernise_.  
Charles wondered whether Arthur really didn’t know the realities of what had happened to native folk all over the country, were those words so fancy that even someone like Arthur didn’t know of the years of suffering of Charles’s people? 

“I remember.” Charles said to Eagle Flies.  
“What tribe are you from?” Eagle Flies asked him and Charles felt a familiar churning in his stomach, a shameful remorse.  
“I… I don’t have a tribe. They… They’re gone.”  
Eagle Flies nodded gravely, “so you ride with the white people?”  
“For now,” Charles answered.  
“You were a great help today,” Eagle Flies told him, gesturing to the now empty wagon behind them, “please, come back to the reservation with me and meet my father, Rains Fall. He is the chief of our people.”

Part of Charles wanted to decline, the other desperately wanted to go with Eagle Flies. He spent so long alone, so long with other people who weren’t like him that the company of other natives excited him. Part of him felt like that was where he truly belonged, with people who understood him. But would they really understand him? He was only half native. His memories of his own tribe were hazy. He couldn't even remember where that was, couldn't remember anyone from that tribe, only his parents. Sometimes he wondered whether it had all been a dream. 

The army tore through that night, taking people, taking his mother. He barely remembered her, the only memory he really had was her humming softly as she braided his hair for him when he was too young to do it himself.  
His father grabbed him that night, lifting him, burying his head in his chest as fire tore through the camp, destroying everything forcing people to run but the army were waiting for them. 

Charles’s father had managed to get them away but he left himself in the camp. Charles had never seen his father cry before but that was all he did after that, until he found the drink that was. Drink destroyed him. 

Charles looked at Eagle Flies, he couldn’t have been too much younger than him, maybe five years or so but he there seemed a lifetime’s difference between them. Eagle Flies had a hunger for life, a passion that burned in his eyes and in his voice that Charles no longer had. He was jaded and tired. If he went with Eagle Flies would he find his own passion? Or would it end in fire again?

“I can’t right now. I should go back to my people.” Charles replied.  
Eagle Flies nodded hesitantly. He spoke with certainty. “You do what you must but I hope you will come back. I would appreciate your help. My people…. They need all the help they can get. We’re north of Bacchus Station.”  
Charles nodded in understanding. Eagle Flies gave his horse a gentle kick and it started up the trail, after the others who had already departed. 

Charles rode back to Clemens point, not thinking of where he was going, letting Taima take him back while his mind wandered. He stayed with the Van der Linde gang because it suited him to come and go, to have people depend on him and to feel like he belonged some place… But maybe he would feel more at home with a tribe...

*****

It had been strange. Colm had spoken to Dutch without really saying anything.  
Micah could tell that Dutch’s patience had been tested, “what are we doing here, Colm?” He asked, he sounded tetchy. “Is this _thing_ over?”  
Colm smirked. “I don’t know, Dutch. Is it?” He replied. His grey eyes seemed to shimmer in a devilish way that Micah wasn’t so sure about, his fingers twitched, ready to reach for his schofield revolver at any second but he needn’t have bothered.  
“It’s nice to see you again. We should do this more often.” Colm said and then turned away, gesturing for the three burly men he had brought with him that they were going.

Micah looked to Dutch, Dutch was still looking at Colm, almost in disbelief.  
“Boss?” Micah said.  
“C’mon, let’s get out of here, we’ve wasted enough of our time today,” Dutch grunted and turned on his heel, marching back to the horses.  
Micah followed quickly, “boss, what was that all about?” He asked.  
“I don’t know.” Dutch said as he kicked his heels against The Count and began their way back to Clemens Point.  
He didn’t say anything more until they got to the crossroads where Arthur had agreed to meet them. They waited in silence for a little while, Micah’s missouri foxtrotter, Baylock, pawing at the dirt track. Arthur didn’t come.  
“Maybe he went on ahead?” Micah suggested, looking at Dutch who wore a thunderous expression on his face.  
“Maybe.” Dutch replied shortly but he didn’t look satisfied.  
“Let’s go back, no point waitin’ if he ain’t comin’.”  
Dutch hesitated, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair before massaging his neck through stress. He didn’t say anything when he made his mind up, just turned The Count so he faced the camp and rode on.

It seemed to take longer to get back to camp than it had on their way there, maybe because of Dutch’s mood and the silence that descended on them like thick fog.  
When they got back, Hosea looked like he’d been waiting for them. “How did it go?” He asked.

Dutch shook his head, wafting the question away with his hand and made his way to his tent.  
Hosea’s piercing eyes met Micah’s. Hosea didn’t like Micah, he had told him so much. Not many of the gang members liked Micah, he often found himself on the outskirts of the camp watching everyone else. Micah supposed that it didn’t matter if he didn’t have the approval of everyone, Dutch liked him and that was what mattered most. 

Micah stood by the table where Hosea sat with his feet up, a newspaper resting on his torso. He must have been dozing as he often did now, he was sick though he wouldn’t admit it; he had a loud hacking cough that sounded painful. He brushed Dutch or Arthur off when they asked if he was ok. He clearly wasn’t. 

“What did Colm say?” Hosea asked Micah.  
Micah shrugged. “Not a whole lot, really. It wasn’t like it was a trap, it was just… Strange.”  
“Somethin’ ain’t right.” Hosea said, his eyes hardening. Micah thought so, too. “And Arthur? Where is he?”  
Micah half shrugged again, “he ain’t here?”  
“No.” Came Hosea’s blunt reply.  
“We thought he rode ahead. I guess he changed his mind.”  
Hosea didn’t look convinced. Micah shrugged for a third time. He didn’t know what else to say so he sloped off to sit at the edge of the camp.

For the majority of the time, Micah found himself frustrated with the camp and it’s members as most of them were lazy and ungrateful. Abigail was always asking for favours or money, especially from Arthur because she knew he was an easy target. Molly complained constantly but didn’t do anything about it, never lifting a finger with the other women to cook or mend clothes. Then there was Swanson and Uncle, leeches who drained them of resources and never gave into the donations box.  
Micah was frustrated but the gang was the closest thing to a family that Micah had been a part of for a long time. They say people are social creatures, that humans need touch and social interaction otherwise they’d go insane. He didn’t know if there was any truth in that. Micah did just fine on his own, he had learnt to survive that way… But it was nice to wake up to other people’s voices in the mornings.

He lay down for a while. He didn’t always feel comfortable sleeping in a large group of people; sure, he had grown to _like_ the gang but that didn’t mean he trusted them. He had spent a long time alone, floating from one group of people to another, sleeping with one eye open and one hand on his revolver. 

Charles returned as the sun was beginning to set. The smell of Pearson’s cooking was strong in the air and the chatter around the camp had become more lively. Dutch came back out of his tent after a little while and him and Hosea had been sitting together talking in hushed tones but Micah could see they weren’t exchanging niceties. 

“Mr Smith, have you seen Arthur on your travels?” Dutch asked him after he dismounted Taima.  
“No.” Charles replied bluntly.  
Dutch shot a worried glance at Hosea. “I don’t like it.” He said, his voice hushed.  
“Neither do I.” Hosea replied.  
“What’s going on..?” Charles asked with some trepidation.  
Dutch’s dark eyes flickered as they met Charles’s, as if he were debating whether to tell him or not. “We went out… Colm O’Driscoll wanted to meet for some sort of parlay… Arthur was coverin’ us incase anything untoward happened… And it didn’t. Only Arthur never came back. He said he’d meet us but he never showed up.”  
“That doesn’t sound like him.” Charles said, his brow wrinkled. Arthur might be a drunk but he was a man of his word. 

“No, you’re right. It doesn’t.” Hosea said.  
“Look, it wouldn’t be outta character for Morgan to have taken a detour by a saloon or somethin’,” said Micah who was still watching Dutch, waiting for his next move.  
“Enough,” Dutch growled.  
Micah looked a little taken aback at Dutch’s tone. He was a man to be feared and not to be trifled with, Micah knew this much but it was not common for him to lose his patience.

“Colm likes to hit where it hurts....” Dutch said more to himself than anyone else. “Maybe… Maybe you were right, Hosea.”

Dutch may have treated Arthur like a pet but he had a soft spot for him for sure.  
It was obvious that Arthur adored Dutch, hung on to his every word, blindly followed him regardless of the risk, under the belief that Dutch would always see them through even when the odds were stacked against them. Arthur wasn't there because he was afraid to leave or because he couldn't be alone like some of the others, he was there because he loved Dutch; that much was plain to see. Dutch knew, too. A fool could see Arthur's devotion. If Micah didn't know better, he'd have said something was going on between them.

“I told ya!” Hosea said, getting to his feet. “Colm O’Driscoll can’t be trusted! What are we gonna do?”  
Dutch breathed heavily, dark eyes boring a hole in the table as he glared at it, brow furrowed as he thought.  
“I can go and find him,” Charles offered. “I should be able to track him.”  
It was like Dutch couldn’t hear him, he rubbed his temples and closed his eyes for a moment.  
“Dutch?” Hosea said, his voice was piercing and seemed to bring Dutch back to earth.  
Dutch nodded, “take Micah with you.”  
It wasn’t often Charles protested but he shook his head instantly, “I don’t need him. He’ll only slow me down -”  
“Just take him and find Arthur, now!” Dutch barked. It made Micah start, Hosea looked away but Charles remained standing still, unwavering. He didn’t answer Dutch, Micah could feel tension simmering and thought a fight might break out. But that wasn’t like Charles. Charles simply turned and walked back to his horse, saddling up without a word.  
Micah followed suit.

“So this meeting with the O’Driscolls of yours, what happened?” Charles asked Micah once they were clear of camp. Micah and Charles hadn’t talked much, Micah couldn’t remember the last conversation he had had with the younger man. They were different people, the sort of people who wouldn’t converse outside of the setting of the gang.  
“First, it weren’t my idea,” Micah said hotly, “it was Pearson’s. And secondly, I have no clue what happened or why Morgan ain’t come back, but he’s a big boy, I’m sure he can handle himself.”  
Charles didn’t reply. He looked serious but what was new for him?  
“We should split up.” Charles said abruptly. Micah didn’t argue, he didn’t want to be stuck with him anyway. Charles rode ahead. Micah hung back. Charles was so self righteous, such a damn stick in the mud, despite the fact that he was a killer like the rest of them - Charles was no better than him. 

Micah didn’t see the big deal; Arthur was a grown man, why was Dutch acting like he was a kid? He’d come back when he was good and ready, he didn’t need a search party out looking for him.  
Micah took it easy, riding back towards where they had gone to meet the O’Driscolls to see whether Arthur had just set up a camp there, maybe fallen asleep because there wasn’t anything for him to do. When he got back to the ledge where Arthur had been watching over them and found it deserted, he took off towards West Elizabeth. He found himself wandering aimlessly, knowing that he couldn’t turn up back at camp empty handed too soon.  
He rode past Horseshoe Overlook, he hadn’t spent much time there, too busy in Strawberry jail until Arthur broke him out.

The sun was fast setting and soon the visibility was bad. He stopped on the west bank of the Dakota river where he had a stunning view of Bard’s Crossing and the trains passing by once an hour. Micah hitched Baylock to a nearby tree and he sat down heavily on the ground. He lit up a cigarette and smoked absentmindedly, trying to think of anything other than the mess they had found themselves in- all that money stuck in Blackwater….  
One smoke turned into two, then three and Micah’s eyes were beginning to feel heavy. It was when his head fell forwards as he succumbed to sleep that he heard hooves coming towards him. Micah got to his feet slowly, looking around to see where the horse was coming from. 

Micah’s pale eyes squinted, adjusting to the darkness, he could just make out a white horse on the trail. He recognised it, a mustang - Arthur’s mustang.  
Micah could see Arthur’s body slumped forward in the saddle. Sapphire was trotting slowly in the direction of Clemens Point, as if she knew where she was going. Micah made his way back up the trail, as he got closer to the mustang, he could see that Arthur was dressed only in his union suit but it was torn and bloody. Arthur’s eyes were closed like he was sleeping but Micah knew better.  
“Morgan?” Micah called to him but Arthur didn’t respond. Micah blocked Sapphire’s path and the horse came to a stop. Micah was able to move to the horse’s side and study Arthur. Arthur looked awful, his skin was grey and bloodied like he’d been beaten. Hesitantly, Micah reached out to Arthur and prodded him, wondering for one heartstopping moment, if Arthur was dead.  
Arthur was warm beneath Micah’s fingertips. Micah sighed in relief. He could hear that Arthur’s breathing was laboured. 

It was still a fair ride back to Clemens Point but Arthur was in a bad way and needed help now… Micah panicked for a moment, not knowing what to do. Eventually, he guided Sapphire over to where Baylock was hitched. If he could move Arthur onto his own horse, they could get back to camp and Arthur’s wounds could get seen to by Swanson or Grimshaw...

“C’mon cowpoke,” Micah said as he gently lifted Arthur from under his armpits and down from his horse. Arthur was heavier than Micah anticipated and he struggled with him. Arthur moaned softly and held onto Micah.  
“Dutch…” Arthur managed to breathe, his eyes still closed, brow furrowed and hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.  
“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. It’s me, Micah.”

Arthur gasped as Micah moved him towards Baylock, he didn’t have the strength to stand, his legs giving way beneath him. Arthur’s fingers gripped Micah’s arms in a way that Micah wasn’t used to being held, it caught him off guard.  
“Please…” Arthur rasped, “help…”  
Even Micah couldn’t bring himself to be his usual self to Arthur; he looked pathetic, covered in blood and bruises. He’d been shot, that much was obvious now he stood before Micah - clean through the shoulder at close range by the looks of things.  
“You’re gonna be fine, cowpoke.” Micah said to him, though he wasn’t too sure himself. 

Micah tried to lift Arthur onto Baylock but without Arthur being able to help himself, Micah struggled.  
Arthur yelped in pain, hs whole body trembling in Micah’s arms.  
“I bet it hurts like hell.” Micah said to him, “but I need to get you on the horse, Morgan. We gotta get back to camp.”  
“Please, Micah… I can’t…”  
“Easy, Morgan. I just need to get you on my horse.” Micah repeated but Arthur wouldn’t help himself mount Baylock.  
Arthur’s head lolled and his eyes rolled back. He felt weak. Micah had never seen Arthur like this before, never really seen Arthur injured before - Arthur was too careful, too capable for that.  
“Morgan? Come on now, wake up!” Micah shook him and Arthur groaned, letting his head rest against Micah’s shoulder. If Micah wasn’t preoccupied by Arthur’s injury, he might have let himself sigh into the touch.  
“Dutch…” Arthur repeated.  
“I’ll take you to Dutch, help me get you on the horse.”  
“I can’t…” He whimpered against Micah. Micah looked at the gunshot wound, it looked nasty.  
Almost against his better judgement, Micah sighed. “Ok Morgan. Here, I got ya.”

He settled Arthur down on the ground and began to set up a camp downstream from where he had originally been sitting, away from the trail. When he was done, he moved Arthur so that he was lying down on the bedroll by a fire Micah had lit. 

Arthur was still moaning. When Micah pressed his hand to Arthur’s forehead, he could tell that Arthur had a fever already, his skin burned beneath Micah’s palm. He didn’t know when Arthur had gotten himself shot but it was almost certainly infected now. Despite the fire, Arthur shivered violently. Micah could see the sweat pooling at the base of his neck, his forehead glistened and he writhed in pain.

Micah wasn’t too sure how to care for someone like this, he had never cared for anyone ill before; he had seen Miss Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson caring for John after the wolf attack and did his best to emulate what they had done. Micah took his neckerchief and dampened it in the cool water of the river, using it to dab Arthur’s forehead and neck, trying to relieve him from his discomfort. 

Arthur mumbled nonsensically. Micah could make out Dutch’s name but little else. Micah sat beside him, unsure what to do, watching helplessly as Arthur writhed in pain.  
He knew he had to address Arthur’s wound, bur Micah wasn’t any sort of nurse. Carefully, Micah unbuttoned the union suit so he could get to Arthur’s gunshot wound, pulling to down to reveal the swell of Arthur’s chest.  
The gunshot was on his left shoulder. Micah saw the clumsy cauterisation and clicked his tongue. After going to Sapphire and rummaging through her saddlebags, he came back with a half drunk bottle of gin.  
“I need to clean your wounds,” Micah told Arthur, “I ain’t gonna lie, Morgan, it’s gonna sting like a bitch, ok?”  
Arthur didn’t answer. Micah wasn’t sure whether he’d heard him. Micah doused his neckerchief with the gin now before pressing it to Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur cried out, stricken with pain, his body rigid, his eyes opening from the shock of it, a flash of azure blue. He tried to wriggle away from Micah.  
“I need to clean it,” Micah told him firmly, holding Arthur still. “You wanna die from some goddamn infection?”  
“It hurts…” Arthur managed to choke.  
“It’ll hurt a whole lot more if I leave it.” Micah retorted. He looked down at Arthur who was panting and seemed delirious. “I have to clean it,” Micah repeated, this time his voice softening. “Arthur… Please, let me do this.”  
Arthur swallowed. “Ok.”  
He bit down on his lip and growled as Micah pressed the cloth to him again. Micah felt him shake, trying his best not to pull away. He instinctively reached for Micah, gripping his wrist. Micah flinched at Arthur’s touch.

He dabbed gently until the wound seemed a little cleaner. Arthur seemed to relax now. His breathing calmed and he stilled. His fingers were still around Micah’s wrist. Micah sat like that for a while, the sky had become a black velvet above them now and the only sound came from the river. It was peaceful in a way, it seemed like a strange juxtaposition with Arthur so frenzied.

He watched Arthur drifting in and out of his feverish sleep. When he moaned Micah hushed him. Hesitantly, he brought his hand to Arthur’s forehead where he stroked the hair out of his eyes, he didn’t know why, it just seemed like the right thing to do and seemed to calm Arthur. The features of his handsome face softened; Arthur sighed and slept for a while, waking every so often. Micah gave him water and Arthur drank greedily, water spilling down his chin then he slept again.

Micah didn’t know how long they spent like that. Eventually, he heard more hooves approaching, these were faster. He stood, instinctively reaching for his gun. It had crossed his mind that O’Driscolls might be out looking for Arthur, assuming it was them who had done this to him, but surely they wouldn’t have searched this long?

It wasn’t O’Driscolls, it was Charles.  
“What the hell are you doing?” He snapped when he approached, he had a wild look in his eye, “why haven’t you taken him to camp?”  
“He’s not in good shape, I’m surprised he lasted this far.”  
Charles pushed past Micah and went to Arthur’s side. Micah stood uselessly and watched. 

Charles spoke softly to Arthur, “Arthur, Arthur can you hear me?”  
Arthur stirred and looked up at him, “Charles…” he whispered, a hint of a smile gracing his full lips.  
Charles smiled back. Arthur’s hand found Charles’s and for a moment, they gazed at each other.  
“We need to get you back to camp, it’s not safe here.” Charles said, his voice gentle.  
“He can’t.” Micah started but Charles managed to lift Arthur over his shoulder with what looked like relative ease. Arthur had regained some strength as he was able to get onto the back of Taima with Charles’s help.

Charles turned and glared at Micah. “This would never have happened if you hadn’t made Dutch go ahead with your idiotic plan.”  
Micah swallowed, gaze fixing on Arthur “I...I didn’t know.” He said dumbly. He watched Arthur wind his arms around Charles’s waist and rest his weight against him. Something stirred and uncoiled itself from the pit of his stomach and consumed him; an anger, a jealousy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!


End file.
